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POEMS 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY 



COLLECTED EDITION 



WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 

EDINBURGH AND LONDON 

MDCCCLXVII 



Tffs 



t9Ly 



¥S-f 



CONTENTS. 







PAGE 


THE BIRTHDAY 


• 


I 


THE LEGEND OF SANTAREM . 


.. 


97 


THE PAUPER'S DEATHBED 


. 


102 


SONNET.— l8l8 


. 


103 


CONTE A MON CHIEN 


. 


104 


SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY IS THE EVIL 


THEREOF 


116 


FAREWELL TO MY FRIENDS . 


. 


122 


TO A DYING INFANT 


• 


124 


MY OLD DOG AND I . 


. 


128 


ranger's GRAVE 


,"' 


133 


THE MARINER'S HYMN 




135 


SONNET .... 


• 


136 


THE BROKEN BRIDGE 


1 


137 


SONNET .... 


. 


144 


THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE 


. 


H5 


TO MY BIRDIE 


.. 


155 


TO MY OLD CANARY . 


. 


157 


TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY 


* 


l6 3 


SONNET . 


. 


164 



VI 



Contents. 



THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF 

ON THE NEAR PROSPECT OF LEAVING HOME.— l8l8 

AUTUMN FLOWERS . 

TO DEATH 

ONCE UPON A TIME . 

that's WHAT WE ARE 

departure . 

the child's unbelief 

the greenwood shrift 

the warning 

the three friends 

my garden . 

the young grey head 

little Leonard's "good-night" 

how swift is a glance of the mind ! 

on the removal of some family portraits 

SONNET. — l8l8 
WILD FLOWERS 
TO LITTLE MARY 

SONNET l82I 

THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO 

THE RIVER . 

SUNDAY EVENING 

THE CHURCHYARD . 

TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN 

THE WELCOME HOME. — 1820 

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS 

WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN ? 



Contents. 



vn 



THE LANDING OF THE PRIMROSE . 

THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT 

THE LAST JOURNEY . 

THE SPELL OF MUSIC 

TOO LATE .... 

THE EVENING WALK 

'TIS HARD TO DIE IN SPRING 

LAMENT FOR LILIAS . . 

THE NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK 

PAST AND PRESENT . 

THE WINTRY MAY. — 1 83 7 . 

I WEEP, BUT NOT REBELLIOUS TEARS 

IT IS NOT DEATH 

ABJURATION .... 

ONCE UPON A TIME . 

I NEVER CAST A FLOWER AWAY 

A FAIR PLACE AND PLEASANT 

MY EVENING 

THE PRIMROSE 

ARCHBISHOP GERSON 



248^ 

252 

256 

259 
260 
262 
276 

277 
279 
282 
283 
285 
286 
288 
29I 
292 

293 
294 
3OO ' 
30! 



NOTES TO "THE BIRTHDAY 



304 



POEMS. 



THE BIRTHDAY. 



PART THE FIRST. 



CONTENTS. 



The Sixth of December. — The Family Circle. — The Old Nurse. — The 
First Sorrow. — Education. — Drawing. — The Landscape. — Parental 
Hopes. — Cutting - out. — Dolls. — Needle work. -^-Fairy Sports. — The 
First Writing-Lesson. — Solitary Childhood. — The Garden. — Spring. 

DARK gloomy day of Winter's darkest month ! 
Scarce through the lowering sky your dawning 
light 
In one pale watery streak breaks feebly forth. 
No sunbeam through that congregated mass 
Of heavy rolling clouds will pierce to-day. 
Beams of the cheering sun ! I court ye not. 
Best with the saddened temper of my soul 
Accords the pensive stillness Nature wears ; 
For Memory, with a serious reckoning, now 
Is busy with the past — with other years, 
A 



The Birthday. 

When the return of this, my natal day, 

Brought gladness to warm hearts that loved me well. 

As wayworn Pilgrim on the last hill- top 

Lingers awhile, and, leaning on his staff, 

Looks back upon the pleasant plain o'erpast, 

Retracing far, with retrospective eye, 

The course of every little glancing stream 

And winding valley path, late hurried o'er, 

Perchance, with careless unobservant eye, 

Fixed on some distant point of fairer promise — 

As with long pause the highest summit gained — 

Dividing, like the Tyrolean ridge, 

Summer from winter, — that wayfaring man 

Leans on his staff, and looks a long farewell 

To all the lovely land : So linger I, 

Life's lonely Pilgrim, on the last hill -top, 

With thoughtful, tender, retrospective gaze, 

Ere, turning, down the deep descent I go, 

Of the cold shadowy side. 

Fair sunbright scene ! 
Not sunny all — ah, no ! — I love to dwell, 
Seeking repose and rest, on that green track, 
Your farthest verge, along whose primrose path 
Danced happy Childhood, hand in hand with Joy, 
And dove-eyed Innocence — unawakened yet 
Their younger sister Hope — while flowers sprang up 
Printing the fairy footseps as they passed. 
Return, ye golden hours ! old times ! return : 
Even ye, ye simple pleasures, I invoke, 
With rose-hues tinting life's delightful dawn ! 
Yes, I Invoke ye, dear departed days ! 
I call ye from the land of shadows back, 
Mellowed by softening Time, but not obscured, 
Distinct in twilight beauty, such as steals, 



The Birthday, 

Like grey-robed Vestal in some pageant's train, 
With slow advance on sunset's crimson wake. 

Come in your mellowed hues, long vanished years ! 
Come in your softened outline, passing slow 
O'er the charmed mirror, as I gaze entranced — 
There first I see, when struggling into life, 
Dawned the first ray of infant consciousness ; 
There first I see a tender, watchful group, 
Hailing delightfully that token faint. 
Two Parents then, inestimable wealth ! 
Two Parents me, their only darling, blessed : 
And one — the good, the gentle, the beloved ! — 
My Mother's Mother. Still methinks I see 
Her gracious countenance. The unruffled brow, 
The soft blue eye, the still carnationed cheek 
Unwrinkled yet, though sixty passing years 
Of light and shade — ah ! deeply shaded some — 
Had streaked with silvery grey her tresses fair. 
Even now methinks that placid smile I see, 
That kindly beamed on all, but chief on me, 
Her age's darling ! Nor of hers alone : 
One yet surviving in a green old age, 
Her Mother lived ; and, when I saw the light, 
Rejoicing hailed her daughter's daughter's child. 

Nor from that kindred patriarchal group 
Be thou excluded, long- tried humble friend! 
Old faithful Servant ! Sole survivor now 
Of those beloved, for whom thine aged hands 
The last sad service tremblingly performed, 
That closed their eyes, and for the long, long sleep 
Arrayed them in the vestments of the grave. 
Yes, thou survivest still to tend and watch 



The Birthday. 

Me, the sad orphan of thy Master's house ! 
My cradle hast thou rocked ; with patient love, 
Love all enduring, all indulgent, borne 
My childhood's wayward fancies, that from thee 
Never rebuke or frown encountered cold. 

Come nearer. — Let me rest my cheek even now 
On thy dear shoulder, printed with a mark 
Indelible of suffering borne for me : 
Fruit of contagious contact long endured, 
When on that pillow lay my infant head 
For days and nights, a helpless dying weight, 
So thought by all; as almost all but thee 
Shrank from the little victim of a scourge 
Yet uncontrolled by Jenner's heaven-taught hand. 
And with my growth has grown the debt of love ; 
For many a day beside my restless bed, 
In later years thy station hast thou kept, 
Watching my slumbers, or with fondest wiles 
Soothing the fretful, feverish hour of pain : 
And when at last, with languid frame I rose, 
Feeble as infancy, what hand like thine, 
With such a skilful gentleness, performed 
The handmaid's office ?— tenderly, as when 
A helpless babe thou oft hadst robed me thus. 
Oh, the vast debt ! — yet to my grateful heart 
Not burdensome, not irksome to repay : 
For small requital dost thou claim, dear Nurse ! 
Only to know thy fondly lavished cares 
Have sometimes power to cheer and comfort me : 
Then in thy face reflected, beams the light, 
The unwonted gladness, that irradiates mine. 
Long mayst thou sit as now, invited oft, 
Beside my winter fire, with busy hands 



The Birthday. 

And polished needles knitting the warm wool ; 
Or resting with meek reverence from thy work, 
When from that Book, that blessed Book ! I read 
The words of Truth and Life, — thy hope and mine. 

There shalt thou oft, Time's faithful chronicler ! 

Tell o'er to my unwearied ear old tales 

Of days and things that were — and are no more. 

Yes, thou shalt tell, with what a noble air, 

On wedding, or on christening festival, 

The portly form of my Granduncle moved ; 

In what fair waving folds the snowy lawn, 

Bordered with costly point, redundant flowed, 

Beneath his goodly amplitude of chin ; 

And how magnificent in rich brocade, 

And broidered rosebuds, and rough woven gold, 

Half-down his thigh the long flapped waistcoat fell. 

A comely raiment ! that might put to shame 

The shrunken garb of these degenerate days. 

Then shall I hear enumeration proud 

Of female glories — silks that " stood on end ! " 

Tabbies and damasks, and rich Paduasoys, 

And flowing sacks, and full-trimmed negligees, 

And petticoats whose gorgeous panoply, 

Stiffened with whalebone ribs the circuit vast, 

With independent grandeur stood sublime. 

Describe again, while I attend well pleased, 
That ancient manor of my Norman race, 
In all its feudal greatness : In thy time, 
Of simple girlhood, to thy wondering mind, 
Still most magnificent, nor yet forsaken 
By the " old family." The ancient gateway 
Surmounted by heraldic sculpture proud ; 



The Birthday. 

The round tower dovecote with its thousand holes — 

Seignorial right, with jealous care maintained — 

And my Great-grandam with her stately presence — 

I mind it well — among her maidens throned 

At the eternal tapestry. I smile ; — 

But more, good sooth ! in sadness than in mirth. 

I've seen the ancient gateway where it stands 

An isolated arch. The noble trees, 

A triple avenue, its proud approach, 

Gone as they ne'er had been ; the dovecote tower 

A desecrated ruin ; the old house 

Dear Nurse ! full fain am I to weep with thee 
The faded glories of " the good old time." 

Return, digressive Fancy ! Maiden mild 
Of the dark dreamy eye, pale Memory ! 
Uphold again the glass, reflecting late 
My happy self in happy childhood's dawn, 
By that dear guardian group encircled close. 

Already changed ! — already clouded o'er 
With the Death-shadow that fair morning sky — 
The kindred band is broken. One goes hence, 
The very aged. Follows soon, too soon, 
Another most endeared, the next in age. 
Then fell from childhood's eyes the earliest tears 
Shed for Man's penal doom. Unconscious half. 
Incomprehensive of the awful truth ; 
But flowing faster, when I looked around 
And saw that others wept ; and faster still, 
When clinging round my Nurse's neck, with face 
Half-buried there, to hide the bursting grief, 
I heard her tell how in the churchyard cold, 
In the dark pit, the form I loved was laid. 



The Birthday. 

Bitter exceedingly the passionate grief 

That wrings to agony the infant heart : 

The first sharp sorrow: — ay, the breaking up 

Of that deep fountain, never to be sealed, 

Till we with Time close up the great account. 

But that first outbreak, by its own excess 

Exhausted soon ; exhausting the young powers : 

The quivering lip relaxes into smiles, 

As soothing slumber, softly stealing on ; 

Less and less frequent comes the swelling sob, 

Till like a summer breeze it dies away ; 

While on the silken eyelash, and the cheek 

Flushed into crimson, hang the large round drops — 

Well I remember, from that storm of grief 

Diverted soon, with what sensations new 

Of female vanity — inherent sin ! 

I saw myself arrayed in mourning frock 

And long crape sash Oh, many a riper grief 

Forgets itself as soon before a glass 
Reflecting the becomingness of weeds ! 

Soon came the days when fond parental care 

'Gan mingle easy tasks with childish play. 

Right welcome lessons ! conned with willing mind : 

For it was told me, by such labour won, 

And exercise of patience, I should gain 

Access to countless treasures hid in books. 

' ' What ! shall I read myself, and when I will, 

All those fine stories Jane can tell sometimes 

When she's good-natured? — but not half so well — 

Oh, no ! not half — as Cousin Marianne. 

What ! shall I read about the sea of glass 

The lady walked on to the ivory hill ? 

And all about those children at the well 



The Birthday. 

That met the fairy, and the toads, and frogs, 
And diamonds ; and about the talking bird, 
And dancing water, and the singing bough, 
And Princess Fairstar? Shall I read all that, 
And more, and when I will, in printed books ? 
Oh, let me learn ! " — And never student's brain, 
Fagging for college prize, or straining hard, 
In prospect of tremendous little go, 
To fetch up Time's leeway in idlesse lost, 
Applied with such intensity as mine. 

And soon attained, and sweet the fruit I reaped. 

Oh, never ending, ever new delight ! 

Stream swelling still to meet the eager lip ! 

Receiving as it flows fresh gushing rills 

From hidden sources, purer, more profound. 

Parents ! dear parents ! if the latent powers 

Called into action by your early cares — 

God's blessing on them ! — had attained no more 

Than that acquaintance with His written will, 

Your first most pious purpose to instil, 

How could I e'er acquit me of a debt 

Might bankrupt Gratitude ? If scant my stores 

Of human learning ; — to my mother tongues, 

A twofold heritage, wellnigh confined 

My skill in languages ; — if adverse Fate — 

Heathenish phrase ! — if Pi-ovidence has fixed 

Barriers impassable 'cross many a path 

Anticipation with her Hope-winged feet, 

Youthfully buoyant, all undoubting trod ; — 

If in the mind's infirmity, erewhile, 

Thoughts that are almost murmurs whisper low 

Stinging comparisons, suggestions sad, 

Of what I am, and what I might have been — 



The Birthday. 9 

This Earth, so wide and glorious ! I fast bound, 

A human lichen, to one narrow spot — 

A sickly, worthless weed ! Such brave bright spirits, 

Starring this nether sphere, and I — lone wretch ! 

Cut off from oral intercourse with all — 

" The day far spent," and oh, how little known ! — 

The night at hand, alas ! and nothing done ; — 

And neither * ' word, nor knowledge, nor device, 

Nor wisdom, in the grave whereto I go." 

* * *■ # 4fr * 

When thoughts like these arise, permitted tests, 
Proving my frailty, and Thy mercy, Lord, 
Let but Thy ministering angel draw mine eyes 
To yonder Book ; and, lo ! this troublous world 
Fades from before me like a morning mist, 
And, in a spirit not mine own, I cry, 
" Perish all knowledge but what leads to Thee !" 

And, was it chance, or thy prevailing taste, 

Beloved instructress ! that selected first, 

Part of my daily task, a portion short, 

Culled from thy * Seasons,' Thomson? — Happy choice, 

Howe'er directed, happy choice for me! 

For as I read, new thoughts, new images, 

Thrilled through my heart with undefined delight, 

Awakening so th' incipient elements 

Of tastes and sympathies that with my life 

Have grown and strengthened; often on its course, 

Yea, on its darkest moments, shedding soft 

That rich warm glow they only can impart — 

A sensibility to Nature's charms 

That seems its living spirit to infuse, 

A breathing soul, in things inanimate, 

To hold communion with the stirring air, 



io The Birthday. 

The breath of flowers, the ever- shifting clouds, 

The rustling leaves, the music of the stream, 

To people solitude with airy shapes, 

And the dark hour, when Night and Silence reigns, 

With immaterial forms of other worlds ; 

But best and noblest privilege, to feel 

Pervading Nature's all-harmonious whole, 

The Great Creator's presence, in His works. 

Those happy evenings, when, on seat high raised, 
By ponderous folio, placed on cushioned chair 
Close to the table drawn, with candles snuffed, 
And outspread paper, and long pencil, shaved 
To finest point — to my unpractised hand 
Not trusted yet the sharply dangerous knife, 
Like all forbidden things, most coveted — 
Oh, blissful hour ! when thus installed on high, 
In fulness of enjoyment, shapes uncouth, 
Chaotic groups, I traced. The first attempt, 
Two crooked strokes, that, nodding inward, prop 
A fellow pair — a transverse parallel. 
The House thus roofed, behold from either end 
Tall chimneys twain sprout up like asses' ears, 
From which, as from a fiery forge beneath, 
Ascend huge volumed smoke- wreaths to the sky. 
Next in the stately front, strokes — one — two — three ; 
There gaps the door, as wide as half the house, 
And thick on either hand come cross-barred squares, 
Hight windows, that for number would tire out 
The patience of that keenly prying wight, 
The tax-collector; while from one, be sure, 
Looks out some favourite form of absent friend, 
Whose house that goodly fabric represents. 
Close on each side, two poles, surmounted high 



The Birthday. 1 1 

By full round wigs, assume the name of trees ; 

And up the road, that widens farthest off, 

In brave contempt of stiff perspective rule, 

Comes coach-and-six, containing — who but me. 

And all my friends, to visit that fine house ! 

Then follow man and horse — a gallant steed, 

With legs, and mane, and tail, and all complete, — 

The rider so secure upon his back, 

He need but stretch his legs, and touch the ground. 

Thick flies the dust — out flies the brandished whip — 

On, on they go ; and if they reach the house, 

That horseman tall may take it on his palm. 

As erst Glumdalclitch handled Gulliver. , 

And now a five-barred gate, and sundry pales, 

And up aloft a flight of birds, so huge 

They must be cranes at least, migrating hence ; 

Some cocks and hens before the door convened — 

A dog and cat, and pig with curly tail, 

And lo ! the Landscape in all parts complete ! 

And never artist of the olden time, 

Renowned Lorraine, or wonder-working Cuyp, 

Or he, the mighty genius of the storm, 

Sublime Salvator, on his masterpiece 

Such looks of sweet complacency bestowed 

As I on mine. And other eyes beheld, 

As pleased, as partial ; and parental hearts 

From the bewildered and incongruous maze 

Sweet inference drew of future excellence, 

Saw combination in the motley whole, 

Conceptions picturesque in crooked strokes, 

And taste and genius manifest throughout. 

Discernment keen ! that with excursive eye 

Pierces the dark dropped curtain, wisely dropped ! 



1 2 The Birthday. 

That shrouds futurity. As he of old, 
The fated Goth, in that Toledan cave 
Saw shadowed out, " as in a glass revealed," 
Things uncreated yet, that were to be ; 
But he beheld the downfall of his hopes, 
His line extinct, his empire overthrown. 
Appalling vision ! type of woes foredoomed — 
Far fairer that, less faithfully fulfilled, 
The pageant that in long perspective view 
Reveals, undoubted, to a parent's eye 
The future glories of his infant race — 
He, while the fairy people round his chair 
Hold their gay revel, from the mimic sport 
Auspicious omen draws, and sage portent. 

That fair, bold boy, with high undaunted brow, 

And broad white chest and shoulders, who bestrides 

His father's cane — a gallant war-horse feigned, 

Himself the warlike rider, and with shout 

And brandished arm, and voice of proud command, 

Marshals his legions — chairs and cushions ranged 

In rank and file — and prances round the room, 

The valiant leader of that well-trained host ; — 

Is not the future hero manifest, 

The laurelled victor, in that noble boy? 

And he, with curly pate and bright black eyes, 

And dimpled mouth of arch significance — 

He ever ready with his " quips and cranks," 

And shifts, and windings, and keen subterfuge, 

Detected misdemeanour to excuse, 

Averting dexterous the suspended rod — 

Already fancy hears, that prating tongue, 

Subtle, ingenious, disputatious, bold, 

The organ of a future barrister ; 



The Birthday. 13 

Or round that chubby face, with prouder hope, 

Adjusts an awful majesty of wig : 

Lo ! on that cushion, where he sits sublime 

(His woolsack now), the future Chancellor. 

That gentle child, with pale transparent cheek, 

And large mild eyes, by silken fringes veiled, 

Clouds darkly shading their celestial blue, 

That melt in dewy sadness if he hears 

Some moving tales, how "once two hapless babes 

Were left alone to perish in a wood, 

And there in one another's arms they died, 

And Robin Redbreast covered them with leaves" — 

That gentle child must be a man of peace — 

He cannot brave the buffets of the world ; 

And yet, with all his meekness — who can tell? — 

The boy may live to be a bishop yet. 

And little Annie — what will Annie be? 

The fair-haired prattler ! she, with matron airs, 

Who gravely lectures her rebellious doll — 

"Annie will be papa's own darling child, 

Dear papa's blessing." Ah, she tells thee truth! — 

The pretty mockbird with his borrowed notes 

Tells thee sweet truth ! Already, is she not 

Thy darling child ? Thy blessing she will prove, 

The duteous prop of thy declining years. 

Thy sons will rove, as various fortune leads, 

Haply successful in their several paths, 

And, like thyself, in course of years, become 

The careful fathers of a hopeful race ; 

Then will ambitious thoughts and worldly cares 

Engross their hearts, and haply steal from thee 

A portion of thy former influence then — 

But she will never change. That tender heart, 

Though wedded love and infant claimants dear 



14 The Birthday, 

May waken there new interests — new and sweet — 
Thine in that loving heart will ne'er decrease ; 
'Tis rich in kind affections, and can give — 
Ay, largely give — without despoiling thee : 
Thou wilt partake her ever watchful cares ; 
Her husband, for her sake, will cherish thee ; 
Her children will be taught to honour thee ; 
And while they fondly swarm about thy chair, 
Or climb thy knees, th' endearing witchery 
Will half renew again her infant days. 
It is not love that steals the heart from love ; 
'Tis the hard world, and its perplexing cares ; 
Its petrifying selfishness, its pride, 
Its low ambition, and its paltry aims. 

Those happy evenings ! ay, 'twas there I left — 

The landscape finished, young invention sought, 

Not often baffled, springs of fresh delight, 

And found them frequent, Goldsmith, in thy work 

Of ' Animated Nature ' — precious book ! 

Illustrated with pictures, that to me 

Rivalled at least the subjects they adorned ; 

Then with sharp scissors armed — a jealous loan 

With many a solemn charge conceded slow — 

And fair unwrinkled paper, soon began 

The imitative labour : and anon 

Wide o'er the table ranged a motley herd, 

A heterogeneous multitude, before 

Never assembled thus, since that old time 

When Noah to the finished ark called in 

Of every species the allotted pair. 

There first the unwieldy elephant advanced, 

Majestic beast ! on whose stupendous bulk 

Raja or Sultan might have sat sublime ; 



The Birthday. 1 5 

Next in the line of march, ill-mated pair ! 

With branching antlers and slight flexile limbs, 

Comes on the graceful dweller of the north ; 

He whose winged swiftness, like an arrow's flight, 

Wafts the rude sledge, that bears o'er Lapland snows 

The stinted native of those cheerless plains. 

The Arab's faithful servant follows next, 

The patient camel, useful to the last — 

Who, when he sinks upon the burning sand 

Beneath his burthen, slakes his master's thirst, 

Slain for its sake, with the long-hoarded draught. 

Then came the warrior bison, strong ally 

Of his rude lord, grim guardian of his herds, 

And sharer of his cabin comforts few. 

Thus had I learnt of each brief history 

From those illumined pages, to relate, 

Too oft, I fear, to undelighted ears, 

When with triumphant pleasure I displayed 

The wonders of that paper menagerie — 

But not as then will I enumerate now, 

From the grim lion to the timorous hare, 

Each by his several title, name, and style — 

Or notice, but with glancing mention brief, 

Those higher aims of art, creating shapes — 

Not likenesses of aught in heaven or earth — 

That with self-gratulating pride I called 

Orlando and Rogero — names renowned ! 

And Bradamant, and fair Angelica — 

For I had read with eager interest, 

Half comprehending, that romantic tale. 

And thine immortal Epic, sightless Bard ! 

In Pope's smooth verse revealed to ears unlearned, 

Supplied a subject that, recalled, e'en now 



1 6 The Birthday. 

Provokes me to a smile ; so strange the choice ; 

That novel illustration so uncouth. 

'Twas when forth issuing from the Cyclops' cave 

The wily Ithacan Ulysses came, 

Locked in the shaggy fleeces of the ram, 

Behind his Centaur flock. Incongruous pairs ! 

Biped and quadruped together linked. 

Ulysses never bound his trembling crew 

More carefully beneath the guardian's fleece 

Than I secured their paper effigies 

To sheep, for height and bulk, proportions huge \ 

Worthy, indeed, to be a giant's flock. 

How vivid still, how deep the hues, the imprint 
Left by those childish pastimes ! Later joys. 
Less puerile, more exciting have I known — 
Ah ! purer none ; from earth's alloy so free — ■ 
But Memory hoards no picture so distinct, 
In freshness as of yesterday, as those 
Life's first impressions, exquisite and strong — 
Their stamp, compared to that of later days, 
Like a proof print from the engraver's plate, 
The first struck off — most forcibly imprest. 
Lo ! what a train like Bluebeard's wives appear, 
So many headless, half dismembered some, 
With battered faces — eyeless — noseless— grim 
With cracked enamel, and unsightly scars — 
Some with bald pates, or hempen wigs unfrizzed, 
And ghastly stumps, like Greenwich pensioners ; 
Others mere Torsos — arms, legs, heads, all gone ! 
But precious all. And chief that veteran doll, 
She from whose venerable face is worn 
All prominence of feature ; shining brown, 
Like chestnut from its prickly coating freed, 



The Birthday. 1 7 

With equal polish as the wigless skull — 

Well I remember, with what bribery won 

Of a fair rival— one of waxen mould — 

Long coveted possession ! — I was brought 

The mutilated favourite to resign. 

The blue-eyed fair one came — perfection's self ! 

With eager joy I clasped her waxen charms ; 

But then — the stipulated sacrifice ! 

" And must we part?" my piteous looks expressed — 

Mute eloquence ! " And must we part, dear Stump ! " 

" Oh ! might I keep ye both ! " — and both I kept. 

Unwelcome hour, I ween, that tied me down 

Restless, reluctant, to the sempstress' task ! 

Sight horrible to me, th' allotted seam 

Of stubborn Irish, or more hateful length 

Of handkerchief, with folded edge tacked down, 

All to be hemmed ; ay, selvidge sides and all. 

And so they were in tedious course of time, 

With stitches long and short, -" cat's teeth " yclept ; 

Or jumbled thick and thin, oblique, transverse, 

At last, in sable line imprinted grim. 

But less distasteful was the sampler's task ; 

There green and scarlet vied ; and fancy claimed 

Her privilege to crowd the canvass field 

With hearts and zigzags, strawberries and leaves, 

And many a quaint device ; some moral verse, 

Or Scripture text, enwrought ; and, last of all, 

Last, though not least, the self-pleased artist's name. 

And yet, with more alacrity of will, 

I fashioned various raiment ; caps, cloaks, gowns ; 

Gay garments for the family of dolls ; 

No matter how they fitted — they were made; 

B 



1 8 The Birthday. 

Ay, and applauded, and rewarded too 
With silver thimble. Precious gift ! bestowed 
By a kind aunt ; one ever kind and good, 
Mine early benefactress ! Since approved 
By time and trial mine unchanging friend ; 
Yet most endeared by the affecting bond 
Of mutual sorrows, mutual sympathies. 

Yet was that implement, the first possessed, 

Proudly possessed, indeed, but seldom worn. 

Easier to me, and pleasanter, to poke, 

As one should poke a skewer, the needle through 

With thumb and finger, than in silver thrall 

To imprison the small tip, too tiny still 

For smallest thimble ever made to fit. 

Dear aunt ! you should have sought in wizard lore 

The name of some artificer, empowered 

By royal patent of the Elfin Court 

To make Mab's thimble — if the sprightly Queen 

Ever indeed vouchsafes in regal sport, 

With needle, from the eyelash of a fly, 

Plucked sharp and shining, and fine cobweb-thread, 

To embroider her light scarf of gossamer. 

Not oft, I doubt ; she better loves to rove 

Where trembling harebells on the green hillside 

Wave in their azure beauty ; or to slide 

On a slant sunbeam down the fragrant tube 

Of honeysuckle or sweet columbine, 

And sip luxurious the ambrosial feast 

Stored there for nature's alchymist, the bee ; 

Then satiate, and at rest, to sleep secure, 

Even in that perfumed chamber, till the sun 

Has ploughed with flaming wheels the Atlantic wave, 

And the dark beetle, her mailed sentinel, 



The Birthday. 1 9 

Winds his shrill signal to invite her forth. 

Not on her waking hour such pomp attends, 

As when on Ohio's banks magnolias tall 

Embalm the dews of night, and living sparks 

Glance through the leaves, and star the deep serene. 

But even here, in our romantic isle, 

The pearl of ocean, girdled with its foam ! 

Land of the rainbow ! even here she loves 

The dewy freshness of the silent hour, 

Whose gentle waftings have their incense too, 

To scatter in her paths ; the faint perfume 

Of dog-rose pale, or aromatic breath 

Of purple wild thyme, clouding the green sward ; 

And though in air no sparkling myriads dart 

Their glancing fires to light the Fairy Queen, 

Earth hath her stars, a living emerald each ! 

And by the lustre of those dewy gems 

She trips it deftly with her merry train 

In mossy dells, around the time-scarred trunk 

Of giant oak, or neath the wych-elm's shade, 

Beside some deep dark pool, where one bright star 

Trembles reflected, or in velvet meads, 

Where, though the limpid blade of tender grass 

Bends not beneath the " many-twinkling " feet, 

Dark circles on the paler sward defined 

Reveal at morning where the dance has been ; 

Oft thickly studded with a mushroom belt, 

The fungus growth of one short summer's night, 

The ring so geometrically drawn, 

As if the gnomes, with scientific skill, 

Forming the fairy sports, had mimicked there 

The circling rampart of a Celtic camp, 

Or with more apt similitude designed 

The Druid's holy ring of pale-grey stones. 



20 The Birthday. 

There oft the milkmaid, when with shining pail 

She seeks the glistening pasture, finds dispersed 

The relics of the banquet, leaves and flowers, 

From golden kingcups cropped, and poplars white, 

The cups and trenchers of the midnight feast. 

Ah, lucky lass ! when stirring with the lark, 

On dairy charge intent, she thither hies, 

And finds her task forestalled — the cool tiled floor 

Flooded, fresh sluiced — stool, shelf, and slab bright rubbed- 

Scalded and sweet the glazy milk-pans all, 

And scoured to silver sheen the ready pail, 

And, brighter still, within its circle left, 

The glittering sixpence — industry's reward. 

Me more delighted in the fairy's haunts 
To sport, like them an airy gleesome sprite, 
Than, prisoner of an hour — e'en that too long — 
The needle's task monotonous to ply. 
But I have lived to prize the humble art — 
To number with the happiest of my life 
Those quiet evenings, when with busy hands 
I plied the needle, listening as I wrought — 
By that mechanical employ, more fixed 
Attention apt to rove — to that dear voice 
Which from some favourite author read aloud. 
The voice is silent, and the task laid by — 
Distasteful now, when silence, with a tongue 
More audibly intelligent than speech 
For ever whispers round me, " She is gone." 

A 'day to be remembered well was that, 
When, by my father taught, I first essayed 
The early rudiments of penmanship. 
Long-wished-for lesson ! by prudential love — 



The Birthday. 2 1 

Wisely considerate of my infant years — 
Withheld, till granted slow in fair exchange 
For some relinquished pleasure ; 'twas received 
A twofold grant — a boon and a reward. 
So I began, long rigorously confined 
To rows of sloping strokes. Not sloping all ; 
At first in straggling piles they jostled rude, 
Like raw recruits, till into order drilled, 
Maintaining equal distance on their march, 
Even and close they ranged like veteran troops, 
In ranks symmetrical ; and then at last 
My long restrained ambition was indulged 
In higher flights, with nicer art to shape 
The involutions of the alphabet. 
Unsteady and perplexed the first attempts — 
Great A's, that with colossal strides encroached 
On twice the space they should have occupied, 
And I's like T's, and R's whose lower limbs 
Beyond the upper bulged unseemly out, 
And sprawling W's, and V's, and Y's, 
Gaping prodigiously, like butter-boats. 
But soon succeeded to those shapeless scrawls 
Fair capitals and neat round characters, 
Erelong in words and sentences combined ; 
At first restrained between two guiding lines, 
Then ranged on one — that one continued long, 1 
Spite of ambitious daring, that would fain 
Have strayed, from limit and restriction free; 
For ardently I longed to scrawl at will 
The teeming fancies of a busy brain, 
Not half content, not satisfied, albeit 
My father, with a kind and ready pen, 
Vouchsafed assistance to the infant muse. 



22 The Birthday. 

Smile, gentle reader — if so be, in sooth, 
Reader shall e'er these simple records scan, — 
But not in mockery of supposed conceit 
Proud of precocious genius. I too smile 
In sad humility, experience-taught, 
At thought of the young daring, by fond hearts 
Built on exultingly. Alas, dear friends ! 
No heaven -born genius, as ye simply deemed, 
Stirred in my childish heart the love of song ; 
'Twas feeling, finely organised perhaps 
To keen perceptions of the beautiful, 
The great in art or nature, sight or sound, 
The working of a restless spirit, long 
For every pastime cast upon itself — 
I was an only child, and never knew 
The social pleasures of a schoolgirl's life. 
All these, with other circumstance combined, 
As those first lessons from the books I named, 
And rural occupations, tuned my soul 
Aye, every trembling chord, to poesie. 
Books were my playfellows, and <;rees and flowers, 
And murmuring rivulets, and merry birds, 
And painted insects, all were books to me, 
And breathed a language, from the dawn of sense 
Familiar to my heart : what marvel, then, 
If, like an echo, wakened by the tone 
Of Nature's music, faint response I made ? 
And so I stood beside my father's knee, 
Dictating, while he wrote, wild rhapsodies 
Of " vales and hills enamelled o'er with flowers, 
Like those of Eden, white with fleecy flocks" — 
Of " silver streams, by springs warm breath un- 
bound, 
And winter past and gone. " 



The Birthday. 23 

Most simple themes, 
Set to a few low notes monotonous, 
Like the first chirping of a nestling bird, 
Quavering uncertain ! But parental hearts 
Hailed them as heavenly music, to their ear 
Prelusive of rich volumed harmonies. 
Fond hopes ! illusive as the march-fire's light ; 
Yet, not like that, in utter darkness quenched. 
Nature in me hath still her worshipper, 
And in my soul her mighty spirit still 
Awakes sweet music, tones, and symphonies, 
Struck by the master-hand from every chord. 
But prodigal of feeling, she withholds 
The glorious power to pour its fulness out ; 
And in mid-song I falter, faint at heart, 
With consciousness that every feeble note 
But yields to the awakening harmony 
A weak response — a trembling echo still. 

Revive, dear healthful pastimes ! active sports 

Of childhood's enterprising age, revive ! 

Elastic aye ! untiring, unsubdued 

By labour, disappointment, or fatigue : 

Thy toil enjoyment — thy defeated hope 

The spur to fresh exertion — thy fatigue 

The healthful anodyne that medicines thee 

To renovating slumbers light and sweet. 

Full oft I pause with reminiscent eye 

Upon the little spot of border-ground 

Once called " my garden." Proud accession that 

To territorial right and power supreme ! 

To right possessive, the exclusive mine, 

So soon asserted, e'en by infant tongue. 

Methinks the thick-sown parallels I see 



24 The Birthday. 

Of thriving mustard — herb of rapid growth ! 

The only one whose magical increase 

Keeps pace with young impatience, that expects 

Ripe pulse to-morrow from seed sown to-day. 

To-morrow and to-morrow passes on, 

And still no vestige of the incipient plant. 

No longer to be borne, the third day's sun 

Beholds the little fingers delving deep 

T' unearth the buried seed; and up it comes, 

Just swelling into vegetable life ; 

Of which assured, into the mould again 

'Tis stuck, a little nearer to the top. 

Such was the process horticultural 

I boldly practised in my new domain : 

As little chance of rest, as little chance 

To live and thrive, had slip or cutting there, 

Which failing in three days to sprout amain, 

Was twitched impatient up, with curious eye 

Examined, and if fibrous threads appeared, 

With renovated hope replanted soon. 

But thriving plants were there, though not of price. 

No puny children of a foreign soil, 

But hardy natives of our own dear earth, 

From many a field and bank and streamlet side 

Transplanted careful, with the adhering mould. 

The primrose, with her large indented leaves 

And many blossoms pale, expanded there, 

With wild anemone, and hyacinth, 

And languid cowslip, lady of the mead, 

And violets' mingled hues of every sort, 

Blue, white, and purple. The more fragrant white 

Even from that very root, in many a patch 

Extended wide, still scents the garden round. 



The Birthday. 25 

Maternal love received the childish gift, 

A welcome offering, and the lowly flower, 

A rustic stranger, bloomed with cultured sweets ; 

And still it shares their bed, encroaching oft — 

So ignorance presumes — on worthier claims. 

She spared it in the tenderness of love, 

Her child's first gift ; and I, for her dear sake, 

Who prized the pale intruder, spare it now. 

Loved occupations ! blameless, calm delights ! 

Your relish has not palled upon my sense ; 

I taste ye with as keen enjoyment still 

As in my childish days ; with zeal as warm, 

More temperate, less impatient, still I tend 

My flowery charge, with interest unimpaired 

Watching the tender germ and swelling bud, 

Pruning the weak or too luxuriant shoot, 

And timely propping with assiduous care 

The slender stalks with heavy blossoms bowed. 

I will not tell how lately and how oft 

In dreams I've wandered 'mongst the blooming tribes, 

Continuing thus in sleep the pleasing task, 

My summer evening's toil. I will not tell 

How lately, stealing forth on moonless night, 

I've sought by lantern light the dewy buds 

Of peeping larkspur, searching 'mong the leaves 

For nightly spoilers, from the soft light earth 

That issue forth to feed on the young plant, 

Their favourite dainty. No, I will not tell, 

Lest wisdom laugh to scorn such puerile cares 

In age mature, how lately they've been mine. 

The gladness ! the unspeakable deep joy ! 

When Nature, putting off her russet stole 

Of wintry sadness, decks herself afresh 



26 The Birthday. 

In bloom and beauty, like a virgin bride. 
With lovely coyness, shrinkingly she comes ; 
For oft in clouds, and mist, and arrowy sleet, 
The sun, her bridegroom, veils his glorious face, 
And on his setting hour too often hangs 
The breath of lingering frosts, repelling long 
All but the hardiest children of the spring. 
Of these, the earliest pursuivants, appear, 
Studding the brown earth with their golden stars, 
The clustering aconites, a pigmy race, 
Fearless of wintry blast, whose fiercest rage 
Passes innocuous o'er their lowly bed. 
But soon through every border the moist earth 
Breaks up its even surface, every clod 
Expands and heaves with vegetable life ; 
And tender cones of palest green appear, 
The future hyacinths, and arrowy points 
Of bolder crocus ; and the bashful heads 
Of snowdrops, trembling on their slender stalks ; 
And next, of many hues, hepaticas, 
The red, the milk-white, and the lovelier blue — 
A vegetable amethyst ! — come forth, 
The impatient blossoms bursting into sight 
Before the tardier leaves ; but those at length 
Expand their outward circle, fencing round 
With its broad fringe the tufted bloom within. 
But Winter oft, tenacious of his sway, 
Enviously lingers on the skirts of Spring, 
Binds up in frozen chains the stubborn soil, 
Nips the young leaf, and checks the tender germ. 
In such ungenial seasons oft I've watched 
Week after week, and shivered at the sight, 
Beneath some shelving bank or garden wall 
Long wreaths of snow, that on the border mould, 



The Birthday. 27 

In drifted thickness heaped, continuous lie. 

Elsewhere divested of that livery pale, 

The cold Earth reassumes her natural hues, 

And slow returning verdure : but in vain 

To the stiff surface heave the tender heads 

Of budding flowers, or if they struggle through, 

Deep in their sheltering leaves concealed they lie. 

At length succeeds a thaw — a rapid thaw ; 
And from the heavens a dazzling sun looks down, 
Arousing Nature from her torpid thrall. 
Yielding and moist becomes the darkening mould. 
And from that snow-heaped border melts away 
The drifted wreath ; — it shrinks and disappears, 
And lo ! as by enchantment, in its place 
A rainbow streaks the ground — a flowery prism 
Of crocus tribes innumerous, to the Sun 
Expanding wide their gold and purple stars. 

A Christian moral— to the pious mind 
All things present one — may be found e'en here. 
Adversity, like that pale wreath of snow, 
Falls on the youthful heart, a seeming load 
Of deadly pressure, crushing its young hopes ; 
But seeming such, for after certain space 
Continuing there, and if it finds the soil 
Not wholly sterile, to the frozen mass 
Of its own latent virtues it imparts 
A fertilising warmth, that penetrates 
The surface of obdurate worldliness. 
Then from the barren waste, no longer such, 
Upspring a thousand amaranthine flowers 
" Whose fragrance smells to heaven." Desires chas- 
tised, 



28 The Birthday, 

Enlarged affections, tender charities, 
Long-suffering mercy, and the snowdrop buds 
Of heavenly meekness : — These, and thousands more 
As beautiful, as kindly, are called forth, 
Adversity ! beneath thy fostering shade. 



PART THE SECOND. 
CONTENTS. 

The Willow- tree. — The Swing. — The Old Parrot. — The Toad. — The 
Mechanic. — My Spaniel. — Juba. — Birds and Beasts. — Humanity. — 
Sensibility. — Sportsmen. — My Hare. — Old Ephraim. — Travelled 
Puppies. — Sympathy. — Conoscenti . 

Hard by that flourishing domain, that strip 

Of border ground, my garden, late described, 

On a grass plot by the house door there stood 

An aged willow, whose long flexile boughs 

With their light shadows checkered the green turf; 

Beneath the sheltering arms of that old tree 

Pastime, to me delightful, oft I found 

On balanced seat, upborne by a strong limb 

Selected for the trust with cautious care, 

Anxious as his, who for an arctic voyage 

Of unknown peril, far discovery, 

Selects the timbers for some strong-ribbed bark : 

Even with like caution did my father choose 

The transverse bough to which his hands made fast 

With firmness doubly sure the swinging cords; 

Committing to their strength a freight to him 

More precious, than to Solomon of old 

The yearly lading of his treasure-ships 



The Birthday. 29 

From Tarshish and from Ophir — ay, than those 
To the great Hebrew — than the wealth of worlds — 
Far, far more precious to my father's heart 
That bending bough's light weight — his only child. 

Right pleasant pastime ! the clear cutting air 

To cleave with rapid motion, self-impelled — 

For I was dexterous at the sport — to sway 

With pendulous slow motion, dying off 

To scarce perceptible, until at last 

Settling to perfect stillness ; which, howe'er, 

A breath, a finger's motion would disturb. 

So 'twas my luxury to sit and dream, 

Building in cloud-land many a castle fair, 

Albeit no genii of the ring or lamp 

Came at my bidding; in those dreamy moods 

I conjured up as gorgeous palaces — 

Gardens as dazzling bright with jewelled fruit 

As e'er Aladdin's wondering eyes beheld, 

And peopled them with living forms, to me, 

Deep read in magic lore, familiar all. 

Then the Commander of the Faithful strayed, 

And dark Mesrour, and that devoted slave 

Giafar, the pearl of ministers, whose head 

So lightly on his patient shoulders sat, 

Ready to leave them headless, at a nod 

From his most gracious master. Stately walked 

Beside her mighty lord his jealous spouse, 

Scornful Zobeide, their attendant slaves 

Close following ; the fair Noushatoul ; and he 

The Caliph's favourite, jester of the court, 

Facetious Abon Hassan. Hunchback, too, 

And that loquacious Barber, and his train 

Of luckless brethren, came at my command. 



30 The Birthday. 

Then, with King Saladin and Queen Gulnare, 
A car of pearl and coral bore me off 
Through submarine dominions — overarched 
With liquid chrysolite the billowy vault ; 
Or with the exiled brethren far I strayed, 
Amgrad and Assad, or that happier prince 
Who found the hall of statues, found and won 
That ninth, so far surpassing all the rest. 

Anon I ventured on a darker realm, 

Peopled with awful shapes — magicians dire, 

Happak and Ulin, and their hideous crew, 

The Sultan Misnar's leagued inveterate foes. 

How my heart beat, as in the dead of night 

With him and his suspected slave I trod 

Those rocky passages, hewn roughly out 

In the earth's entrails ! How I held my breath, 

Expecting the result, when through the ring 

The severed rope slid rapidly away ! 

How my young feelings sympathised with hers, 

The duteous Una's, when on Tigris' banks, 

A weeping orphan, she was left forlorn ; 

And when in urgent peril — hapless maid ! 

In that dark forest from her side she missed 

The guardian peppercorns ! But oh ! the joy 

When in the shaggy monarch of the woods, 

A^brave protector — brave and kind — she found. 

I saw her by his side — in his thick mane 

I saw her small white fingers fondly twined ; 

Majestically gentle, at her feet 

I saw the royal brute lie fawning down ; 

I saw all this — and murmured half aloud, 

" Oh how I wish I had a lion too ! " 



The Birthday. 3 1 

Fantastic shadows ! fearful, gay, grotesque ! 

Still with a child's delight I reperuse 

The pages where ye live ; recall ye still — 

Ay, all your marvellous annals — with as keen 

And undiminished interest as of yore 

When I convened ye at my sovereign will 

In that green bower beneath the willow-tree, 

Where moments flew uncounted as I sat 

With eyes half-closed, excluding outward things ; 

And as the spell within worked languidly, 

Or kindled into action, truth, and life, 

Slower or faster swung my airy car — 

Not quite at rest, for that had broke the charm — 

Unconscious I so tranced in waking dreams, 

That mine own impulse checked or urged it on. 

But I was not sole tenant of the tree, 
Not then companionless : above my head 
Among the thicker branches, there secure 
From the swing's reach, our old grey parrot hung — 
Poor Poll ! we were in truth well-sorted mates. 
W T ert thou my prototype ? or I in sooth 
The shadow of thy graces and thy wit ? 
As Jacko in the fable proveth plain 
That man, the servile copyist ! apes his. 
Associates though we were in that green bower, 
Yet little kindness, Poll ! betwixt us grew ; 
For many an ancient grudge in either heart 
Kept us asunder, and the hag Mistrust 
Widened the unhealed wounds of former feuds. 
Thou wert, in truth, the aggressor in those feuds, 
For, Poll ! it ill became thy reverend years, 
With spiteful vengeance of that hard sharp beak 
The unsuspecting freedom to repulse 



32 The Birthday. 

Of baby fondness, first encouraged, too, 

By coaxing treachery — " Scratch poor Polly's head." 

And when thy victim, smarting with the pain 

Of that unkind reception, wept aloud, 

'Twas most ungenerous, Poll ! to flout and jeer, 

And mock with imitative whine, and cry, 

And peevish whimper, and convulsive sob, 

Concluding all with boisterous ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Then comments indiscreet of mutual friends — 

Such oftenest the result — but served to increase 

And whet the growing animosity. 

The frowning hearer, when I gabbled o'er 

Some tedious lesson, not a word whereof 

Informed my far-off senses, bade me note 

How Poll as glibly ran her lesson o'er 

Of words by her as little understood. 

The mincing nursemaid, sedulous to improve 

The graces of her charge, reproached me oft 

With turned-in toes — "for all the world like Poll." 

And when my heart with rage rebellious swelled — 

Alas ! 'twas a rebellious little heart — 

And angrily I stamped the tiny foot, 

And screamed aloud, the bird screamed louder still ; 

And I was told to mark how even Poll 

Despised and laughed to shame the naughty girl. 

As babyhood's first lisping years wore on, 

Monitions such as these their influence lost, 

And to the noisy mimic's flout and jeer 

A careless callous listener I became; 

But distance due was still between us kept 

With strict punctilio — an armed, neutral peace, 

Never infringed by familiarity. 



The Birthday. 33 

So there together in the willow-tree 
Our several pastimes Poll and I pursued ; 
Some much resembling still, for to and fro, 
Exalted in her wiry globe, she swung, 
As if to mimic there my sport below. 

Thou wert the only creature, bird or beast, 

Excluded from my lavish fondness, Poll ! 

Fowls of the air, and beasts, and creeping things, 

Ay, reptiles — slimy creatures — all that breathed 

The breath of life, found favour in my sight ; 

And strange disgust I've seen (/ thought it strange) 

Wrinkle their features who beheld me touch, 

Handle, caress the creatures they abhorred ; 

Enchase my finger with the palmer-worm 

Or caterpillar's green, cold, clammy ring, 

Or touch the rough back of the spotted toad. 

One of that species, for long after years, 

Even till of late, became my pensioner — ■ 

A monstrous creature ! — It was wont to sit 

Among the roots of an old scraggy shrub, 

A huge Gum-Cystus : All the summer long 

" Princess Hemjunah " — titled so by me 

In honour of that royal spell-bound fair 

So long compelled in reptile state to crawl — 

" Princess Hemjunah " there, from morn to eve, 

Made her pavilion of the spicy shrub ; 

And they who looked beneath it scarce discerned 

That living clod from the surrounding mould, 

But by the lustre of two living gems 

That from the reptile's forehead upward beamed 

Intelligent, with ever- wakeful gaze. 

There daily on some fresh green leaf I spread 

A luscious banquet for that uncouth guest — 



34 The Birthday. 

Milk, cream, and sugar, — to the creature's taste 
Right welcome offering, unrejected still. 

When autumn winds 'gan strew the crisped leaves 
Round that old Cystus, to some lonelier haunt, 
Some dark retreat, the hermit Reptile crawled : 
Belike some grotto, 'neath the hollow roots 
Of ancient laurel or thick juniper, 
Whose everlasting foliage darkly gleamed 
Through the bare branches of deciduous trees. 
There, self-immured the livelong winter through, 
Brooded unseen the solitary thing : 
E'en when young Spring with violet-printed steps 
Brushed the white hoar-frost from her morning path, 
The creature stirred not from its secret cell : 
But on some balmy morn of ripening June, 
Some morn of perfect summer, wakened up 
With choirs of music poured from every bush, 
Dews dropping incense from the unfolding leaves 
Of half-blown roses, and the gentle South 
Exhaling, blending, and diffusing sweets — 
Then was I sure on some such morn to find 
My Princess crouched in her accustomed form 
Beneath the Cystus. 

So for many years — 
Ay, as I said, till late, she came and went, 
And came again when summer suns returned — 
All knew and spared the creature for my sake, 
Not without comment on the strange caprice 
Protecting such deformed, detested thing. 
But in a luckless hour — an autumn morn, 
About the time when my poor Toad withdrew, 
Annually punctual, to her winter house — 
The axe and pruning-knife were set at work ; — 



The Birthday. 35 

Ah, uncle Philip ! with unsparing zeal 

You urged them on, to lop the straggling boughs 

Whose rank luxuriance from the parent stem 

Drained for their useless growth too large supply ; 

Branch after branch condemned fell thickly round, 

Till, moderate reform intended first — 

Nice task to fix the boundary ! — edged on, 

Encroaching still to radical ; and soon 

Unchecked the devastating fury raged, 

And shoots, and boughs, and limbs bestrewed the 

ground, 
And all denuded and exposed — sad sight ! 
The mangled trees held out their ghastly stumps. 

Spring reappeared, and trees and shrubs put forth 
Their budding leaves, and e'en those mangled trunks, 
Though later, felt the vegetable life 
Mount in their swelling sap, and all around 
The recently dismembered parts, peeped out 
Pink tender shoots disparting into green, 
And bursting forth at last, with rapid growth, 
In full redundance, healthful, vigorous, thick ; 
And June returned with all her breathing sweets, 
Her opening roses and soft southern gales ; 
And music poured from every bending spray ; 
E'en the old mangled Cystus bloomed once more, 
But my poor Princess never came again. 

More beauteous graceful pensioners were those — 
But not more harmless — on the gravel walk 
Before our parlour- window, from my hand 
That pecked their daily dole of scattered crumbs. 
Welcome and safe was each confiding guest, 
Though favour with a partial hand strewed thick 



3 6 The Birthday. 

The crumbled shower in Robin Redbreast's way ; 
But all were welcome, — Blackbirds, Thrushes, 

Wrens, 
Finches, and chirping Sparrows. 

How I hate 
Those London Sparrows ! Vile, pert, noisy things ! 
Whose ceaseless clamour at the window-sill — 
The back-room window opening on some mews — 
Reminds one of the country just so far 
As to bemock its wild and blithesome sounds, 
And press upon the heart our pent-up state 
In the great Babylon ; — oppressed, engulfed 
By crowds, and smoke, and vapour : where one sees, 
For laughing vales fair winding in the sun, 
And hill-tops gleaming in his golden light, 
The dingy red of roofs and chimneys tall 
On which a leaden orb looks dimly down ! 
For limpid rills, the kennel's stream impure ; 
For primrose banks, the rifled, scentless things 
Tied up for sale, held out by venal hands ; 
For lowing herds and bleating flocks, the cries 
Of noisy venders threading every key 
From bass to treble, of discordant sound ; 
For trees, unnatural stinted mockeries 
At windows, and on balconies stuck up 
Fir-trees in vases ! — picturesque conceit ! — 
Whereon, to represent the woodland choir, 
Perch those sweet songsters of the sooty wing. 

****** 
Yet, as I write, the light and flippant mood 
Changes to one of serious saddened thought, 
And my heart smites me for the sorry jest, 
Calling to mind a sight that filled me once 
With tenderest sympathy. 



The Birthday. 37 

In a great city, 
Blackened and deafening with the smoke and din 
Of forge and engine, Traffic's thriving mart, 
Chartered by Mammon, underneath a range 
Of gorgeous show-rooms, where all precious metals, 
In forms innumerous, exquisitely wrought, 
Dazzled the gazer's eye, I visited 
The secret places of the " Prison House." 
From den to den of a long file I passed 
Of dingy workshops, each affording space 
But for the sallow inmate and his tools : 
His table, the broad, timeworn, blackened slab 
Of a deep sunken window, whose dim panes 
Tinged with a sickly hue the blessed beams 
Of the bright noonday sun. I tarried long 
In one of those sad cells, conversing free 
With its pale occupant, a dark-browed man, 
Of hard, repellant aspect, hard and stern. 
But having watched awhile the curious sleight 
Of his fine handicraft, when I expressed 
Pleased admiration, in few words, but frank, 
And toned by kindly feeling — for my heart 
Yearned with deep sympathy — the moody man 
Looked up into my face, and in that look 
Flashed out an intellectual soul-fraught gleam 
Of pleased surprise, that changed to mild and good 
The harsh expression of that care-marred face. 
There lay beside him on the window slab 
A dirty ragged book turned downwards open 
Where he had last been reading, from his toil 
Snatching a hurried moment. Anxiously 
I glanced towards it, but forbore to question, 
Restrained by scrupulous feeling, shunning most 
Shadow of disrespect to low estate ; 



38 The Birthday. 

But from the book my wandering gaze passed on 

To where, beyond it, close to the dim panes, 

A broken flower-pot, with a string secured, 

Contained a living treasure — a green clump, 

Just bursting into bloom, of the field orchis. 

"You care for flowers," I said; "and that fair 

thing, 
The beautiful orchis, seems to flourish well 
With little light and air." 

"It won't for long," 
The man made answer, with a mournful smile 
Eyeing the plant — " I took it up, poor thing! 
But Sunday evening last from the rich meadow 
Where thousands bloom so gay, and brought it here 
To smell of the green fields for a few days 
Till Sunday comes again, and rest mine eyes on 
When I look up fatigued from these dead gems 
And yellow glittering gold." 

With patient courtesy, 
Well spoken, clear (no ignorant churl was he), 
That poor artificer explained the process 
Of his ingenious art. I looked and listened, 
But with an aching heart, that loathed the sight 
Of those bright pebbles and that glittering ore ; 
And when I turned to go — not unexpressed 
My feelings of goodwill and thankfulness — 
He put into my hand a small square packet 
Containing powder, that would quite restore, 
He told me, to dull gems and clouded pearls 
Their pristine lustre. I received, well pleased, 
Proffering payment ; but he shook his head, 
Motioning back my hand, and stooping down 
Resumed his task, in a low, deep-toned voice 
Saying, " You're kindly welcome." 



The Birthday, 39 

Gems and pearls 
Abound not in my treasury, but there 
I hoard with precious things the poor man's gift. 

But what have I to do — distasteful theme ! — 

With towns and cities ? Thither unawares 

Wild fancy wandered", but, recalled as soon, 

Wings back her way, and lights at home once more — 

Lights down amid the furred and feathered court 

That owned my sovereign sway — a motley train ! 

Rabbits and birds, and dormice, cats and kittens, 

And dogs of many a race, from ancient Di, 

My father's faithful setter, to black Mungo 

And mine own favourite spaniel — most mine own. 

My poor old Chloe ! gentle playfellow ! 

Most patient, most enduring was thy love ; 

To restless childhood's teasing fondness proof, 

And its tormenting ingenuity. 

Methinks I see thee in some corner stuck, 

In most unnatural posture, bolt upright, 

With rueful looks and drooping ears forlorn, 

Thy two fore-paws, to hold my father's cane — 

Converted to a musket — cramped across. 

Then wert thou posted like a sentinel 

Till numbers ten were slowly counted o'er — 

That welcome tenth ! the signal sound to thee 

Of penance done and liberty regained ! 

Down went the cane, and from thy corner forth, 

With uproar wild and madly frolic joy, 

Bounding aloft, and wheeling round and round 

With mirth-inviting antics, didst thou spring. 

And the grave teacher — grave no longer — shared 

The boisterous pupil's loud unbridled glee. 



40 The Birthday. 

Then were there dismal outcries, shrill complaints, 

From angry Jane, of frocks and petticoats 

All grim with muddy stains and ghastly rents. 

" 'Twas all in vain," the indignant damsel vowed — 

" 'Twas all in vain to toil for such a child — 

For such a Tom-boy ! Climbing up great trees — 

Scrambling through brake and bush, and hedge and 

ditch, 
For paltry wild-flowers. Always without gloves, 
Grubbing the earth up like a little pig 
With her own nails, and, just as bad as he 9 
Racing and romping with that dirty beast. " 
Then followed serious — "But the time will come 
You'll be ashamed, Miss, of such vulgar ways : 
You a young lady ! — Not much like one now." 
Too oft unmoved by the pathetic zeal 
Of such remonstrance, pertly I replied, 
" No, Mistress Jane ! that time will never come. 
When I'm grown up I'll romp with Chloe still, 
As I do now ; and climb and scramble too 
After sweet wild-flowers just as much as now ; 
And 'grub the earth,' and 'never put on gloves.' 
Then if I dirt my hands and tear my frock, 
You'll not dare scold when I'm a woman grown ; 
For who would mind your scolding, Mistress Jane ? " 

Alas, poor maid ! an arduous task was thine — 
A hopeless, labour, recommencing still, 
Like theirs, the unhappy sisters, doomed to pour 
Eternal streams in jars that never fill. 

Next in degree to the old faithful dog, 

Next in my favouring fondness, Juba ranked. 

Sprung of a race renowned, in Juba's veins 



The Birthday. 4 1 

The mettled blood of noble coursers ran. 

Foaled on my father's land, his sprightly youth 

Sported, like mine, those pleasant meads among, 

And when I saw him first, a new-born thing, 

Tottering and trembling bythe old mare's side 

On his long slender limbs, I called him then, 

And thenceforth he was called, " My little horse." 

And soon those slender, flexile limbs were braced 

With sinewy strength, and soon that feeble frame 

Expanded into vigorous, noble bulk ; 

From his broad swelling chest arched proudly up, 

With graceful curve, the yet unbridled neck ; 

Free to the winds, the flowing mane and tail 

In their wild beauty streamed exuberant out, 

Or lashed the glossy chestnut of his sides 

With dark dishevelled flakes ; and his small ears, 

With flexile beauty oft inverting quick 

Their black-fringed edges ; and those large bright 

eyes, 
Flashing with all the fire of youth and joy, 
And freedom uncontrolled ! I see him now, . 
My gallant Juba ! racing round the field, 
Fleet as the whirlwind, with down-arching neck, 
Yet stately in its bend, and clattering hoofs, 
And long back-streaming tail. In mid career, 
Self-checked and suddenly, he stops abrupt, 
Back on his haunches gathering proudly up 
His bulk majestic, and with head flung back 
Disdainfully aside, and eyes of flame, 
And nostrils wide distended, firmly forth 
He straightens one black, sinewy, slender limb, 
The other, gathered inward, touches scarce 
The ground with its bent hoof. Then loud and clear 
Echoes o'er hill and dale his long shrill neigh, 



42 The Birthday. 

And e'er the sound expires, with snort and stamp 
Away he starts, and scours the field again. 
But oft at sight of me — full well he knew 
His fairy mistress — oft at sight of me, 
With whinnying welcome, and familiar eye, 
Yet shyly curious, he came trotting up 
Expectant, the accustomed feast to claim, 
Apple or crust, that I was wont to bring. 

I have not specified the creatures half, 

My sometime favourites. Should I notice each, 

Paper would fail, and patience be worn out 

Of most indulgent reader. Such a throng ! 

Jackdaws and magpies, turtle-doves and owls, 

And squirrels, playful in captivity, 

But still untamed. Most barbarous to immure 

The pretty sylvan in a small close cage ; 

Painful to watch the everlasting round 

The restless prisoner circles all day long 

Monotonous — sad mockery of mirth ! — 

Within his narrow limits. Wretched change 

From the wild haunts, where erst, from tree to tree 

He leaped and gambolled all the summer long, 

The very life of liberty and joy. 

Mine was an old maimed creature, maimed for life 

By the vile treacherous snare, and happier since — 

So I concluded — in its captive state 

Of plenteous ease, than helplessly at large 

Among its hardier fellows of the woods. 

A very hospital, in truth, I kept 

For such dumb patients, maimed, diseased, and old. 

The squirrel just described, a veteran then, 

Had just precedence ; next in age and rank 

Hopped an old bulfinch, of one leg bereft, 



The Birthday. 43 

By what untoward accident the bird 
Brought no certificate. A sportsman once — 
None of the keenest — brought me bleeding home 
A wounded leveret, not quite hurt to death, 
But sorely mangled. From ks mother's side 
Scarce could the little creature yet have strayed, 
When all too well that fatal shot was aimed. 
Perhaps that luckless morning was the first 
Among the dewy herbs and tender grass 
That the poor mother led her young one forth 
To taste the sweets of life — that sacred gift 
Of its Almighty Maker. Was the boon 
Bestowed to be abused in cruel sport 
By Man, into whose nostrils the same power 
Breathed with creating will the breath of life ? 
I know for Man's convenience and support, 
Nay, for his luxuries, the inferior kinds 
Must toil and bleed. But God, who gave so far 
Dominion over them, extended not 
The royal grant to torture or abuse : 
And he who overtasks them, or inflicts 
Protracted or unnecessary pain, 
By far outstrips His warrant, and heaps up 
On his own head for the great reckoning day 
Such measure as he metes withal to them, 
Of tender mercy. 

I would not devote 
My person, as the pious Hindoo doth, 
To banquet noxious vermin ; nor engage 
The patient carcass of some needy wretch 
To make them pasture ; nor abstain, like him, 
From food of every kind that has contained 
The living essence. I despise and loathe 
The affected whine of canting sentiment, 



44 The Birthday, 

That loves to expatiate on its own fine frame 

Of exquisite perception — nerve all o'er — 

Too tremblingly alive for the mind's peace 

To every shade of delicate distress. 

Such sensitives there are, whose melting souls 

Dissolve in tender pity, or flame out 

With generous indignation, if they see 

A dog chastised, or noxious reptile crushed : — 

Does a fly tease you, and with impulse quick 

Your dexterous hand destroys the buzzing pest — 

Prepare ye for an eloquent appeal 

On the sweet duties of humanity, 

And all the tender charities we owe 

To the poor, pretty, little, helpless things 

"That float in ether." Then some hackneyed verse- 

Your sensitive must doat on poetry — 

vShe quotes to illustrate the touching theme, 

How " the poor beetle that we tread upon 

In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great 

As when a giant dies." 'Tis odious thus 

To hear the thing one venerates profaned 

By sickly affectation : to my ear 

Doubly distasteful, for I heard the words 

First from her lips whose heart was pity's throne. 

That voice maternal taught my infant tongue 

To speak the sentence, and my youthful heart 

To feel and cherish, while its pulses beat, 

Mercy and kindness for all living things. 

Go where you will, the sensitive finds out 

Whereon to expatiate largely — to pour forth 

The flood of her pathetic eloquence. 

A plodding clown to market drives along 

His swine obstreperous : right and left they run 



The Birthday. 45 

In sheer perversity : so right and left 

Resounds the whip, but scarcely reaches them, 

Whate'er their horrid dissonance implies. 

No matter — feeling's champion cannot hear 

Unmoved the cry of innocence oppressed ; 

So forth she steps, and speaks, with hand on heart, 

Tender remonstrance to the boor, who stands 

Scratching his bushy pate, with hat pushed up, 

And eyes and mouth distended with surprise, 

Vented at last, when the oration ends, 

In one expressive expletive — " A nan ! " 

A cart comes by — ah ! painful sight indeed, 

For it conveys, bound fast with cruel cords, 

To the red slaughter-house a bleating load 

Of fleecy victims. Now the impassioned soul 

Of sensibility finds ample scope 

To excruciate its own feelings, and their hearts 

Condemned to hear, while she minutely dwells 

On things revolting — " How the murderous knife 

Shall stop those bleating throats, and dye with gore 

Those milk-white fleeces." 

Thus expatiates she, 
While feeling turns aside, and hurries on. 

But vulgar sufferings, 'mongst the vulgar part 
Of our own species, often fail to excite 
Those tender feelings that evaporate half 
O'er flies and earwigs, and expend themselves 
In picturesque affliction. 

" Ah! " cries one, 
" How happy is the simple peasant's lot, 
Exempt from polished life's heart-riving woes, 
And elegant distresses ! " 



46 The Birthday, 

Bid them turn — 
Those sentimental chymics, who extract 
The essence of imaginary griefs 
From overwrought refinement, — bid them turn 
To some poor cottage — not a bower of sweets 
Where woodbines cluster o'er the neat warm thatch, 
And mad Marias sing fantastic ditties, 
But to some wretched hut, whose crazy walls, 
Crumbling with age and dripping damps, scarce prop 
The rotten roof, all verdant with decay ; 
Unlatch the door, those starting planks that ill 
Keep out the wind and rain, and bid them look 
At the home- comforts of the scene within. 
There on the hearth a few fresh-gathered sticks, 
Or smouldering sods, diffuse a feeble warmth, 
Fanned by that kneeling woman's labouring breath 
Into a transient flame, o'erhanging which 
Cowers close, with outspread palms, a haggard form, 
But yesterday raised up from the sick-bed 
Of wasting fever, yet to-night returned 
From the resumption of his daily toil. 
M Too hastily resumed — imprudent man ! " 
Ay, but his famished infants cried for bread ; 
So he went forth and strove, till nature failed, 
And the faint dews of weakness gathered thick 
In the dark hollows of his sallow cheek, 
And round his white-parched lips. Then home he 

crawled 
To the cold comforts of that cheerless hearth, 
And of a meal whose dainties are set out 
Invitingly — a cup of coarse black tea, 
With milk unmingled, and a crust of bread. 
No infant voices welcome his return 
With joyous clamour, but the piteous wail, 



The Birthday. 47 

" Father! I'm hungry — father ! give me bread ! " 
Salutes him from the little huddled group 
Beside that smoky flame, where one poor babe, 
Shaking with ague- chills, creeps shuddering in 
Between its mother's knees — that most forlorn, 
Most wretched mother, with sad lullaby 
Hushing the sickly infant at her breast, 
Whose scanty nourishment yet drains her life. 

Martyrs of sensibility ! look there ! 
Relieve in acts of charity to those 
The exuberance of your feelings. 

" Ay, but those 
Are horrid objects — squalid, filthy, low 
Disgusting creatures — sentiment turns sick 
In such an atmosphere at such a sight. 
True cottage children are delightful things, 
With rosy dimpled cheeks, and clustering curls ; 
It were an interesting task to dress 
Such pretty creatures in straw cottage-bonnets, 
And green stuff gowns, with little bibs and aprons 
So neat and nice ! and every now and then, 
When visitors attend the Sunday school, 
To hear them say their catechism and creed. 
But those ! — oh heaven ! what feelings could endure 
Approach or contact with those dirty things ? 
True — they seem starving ; but 'tis also true 
The parish sees to all those vulgar wants ; 
And when it does not, doubtless there must be — 
Alas ! too common in this wicked world — 
Some artful imposition in the case." 

Martyrs of sensibility ! farewell ! 

I leave ye to your earwigs and your flies. 



48 The Birthday. 

But, gentle sportsman ! yet a word with you 

Ere to the starting-point I come again 

From this long ramble unpremeditate. 

Your sylvan sports you call most innocent, 

Manly, and healthful. Are they always such ? 

Healthful I grant — for while the sons of sloth 

Doze half their sleepy lives in morning dreams, 

Ye are awake and stirring with the lark ; 

And like the lark ye meet on breezy hill, 

In dewy forest glade, on perfumed heath 

The breath of morning and her roseate smile. 

Most healthful practice — and so far most pure. 

But is it innocent, for murderous sport, 

To scare sweet peace from her beloved haunts ?' 

To sadden and deface with death the scene 

Where all breathes life, and love, and harmony ? 

And is it manly, with assembled rout 

Of horses, dogs, and men, to hunt to death 

A poor defenceless, harmless, fearful wretch, 

The panting hare ? For life — for life she flies, 

And turns, and winds, and doubles in her course 

With art instinctive — unavailing all. 

Now the wild heath, the open plain she tries ; 

Now scuds for refuge to the pleasant brake, 

Where many a morning she was wont to sit 

In her old form, all spangled round with dew ; 

No rest — no respite — danger presses near — 

'Tis at her heels. They burst the thicket now, 

Yet still she moves not— for she cannot move; 

Stiffened with terror, motionless she sits 

With eyes wide staring, whence, I've heard some say, 

Large tears roll down, and on her panting sides 

The soft fur wet with dews of agony. 

Finish the picture ye who list — I turn 



The Birthday, 49 

Disgusted from the task. But can I pass 
Regardless the more lingering, torturing death 
Too oft inflicted ? We behold, indeed, 
The furred and feathered trophies of his skill, 
Disgorged from that fell gulf, the sportsman's bag ; 
Not pleasing to all hearts, I trow, the sight 
Of even that lifeless spoil. But could we see — 
Ah ! could we follow to their sad retreats 
Those more unhappy that escape with life, 
But maimed and bleeding ! To the forest depths 
They crawl or flutter ; there with dabbled plumes- 
All stiff with clotted gore their burnished gold — 
The graceful pheasant cowers beneath some tree, 
Whose pleasant branches he shall mount no more. 
Down droops the shattered wing, and crimson drops 
Mark where the shot has entered in his breast. 
There are no surgeons 'mongst the woodland tribes 
To set such fractures — no purveyors there 
To cater for the wounded, helpless bird ; 
Nay, his own species, with unnatural hate — 
As if, like some of humankind, they feared 
Contagion from approach to misery — 
Drive the poor sufferer from their gay resorts ; 
So to some lonely nook he creeps away 
To starve and die, abandoned and unseen. 

Such wretched fate my little hare's had been, 
But he, whose erring shot performed but half 
Its deadly mission, brought it gently home 
To be my guest and plaything, if it lived ; 
And to my loving care its life was given. 
I nursed it fondly, every want and wish 
Promptly contenting. So I won at last 
Its grateful confidence ; but not like those, 

D 



50 The Birthday, 

Beloved of Cowper, did my hare abide 
Long after years in pleased captivity. 
Nature prevailed ; and when the prickly furze 
Girdled our meadow with its golden belt 
Of odorous blossoms, to that tempting brake, 
Where harboured some of his own kind, my hare 
Cast many a wistful look, as by my side 
He leapt and frolicked in the garden near ; 
Yet long the powerful instinct he withstood 
Prompting to liberty. Compunctious thought 
Perhaps it was of gratitude to me 
That kept him still a prisoner on parole. 

How oft in human hearts such strife springs up 
'Twixt inclination and the scrupulous doubts 
Of rigid conscience ! Bold at first, we cry, 
" Satan, avaunt! " to the seducing fiend, 
And he retires ; but seldom in despair. 
Wise by experience, close at hand lurks he, 
W T atching the time through some unguarded chink 
To slip into the " swept and garnished " hold 
Of his old citadel. Perchance disguised 
Like whispering Prudence, or in Feeling's mask, 
Or Reason's pompous robe, he enters in. 
Then Hesitation, with her shaking hand 
And ever- shifting balance, weighs the cause ; 
And if a mote, a hair, a dust prepond — 
No matter how it came there, or why left — 
On Inclination's side, down drops the scale. 

A cause less trivial fixed at last the fate 
Of my poor Puss. One morning by my side 
In that same garden well content she sat 
Nibbling some fresh-picked dainty, when, behold ! 



The Birthday. 5 1 

With horrid bark, in bursts a stranger dog — 
One who had never learnt respect for hares — 
And scents the victim ; but in vain, for they 
Who follow close restrain his savage speed, 
And Puss escapes, o'erleaps the shallow fence, 
And scuds across the mead, and safely gains 
That prickly covert, which, beheld from far, 
Had filled her heart with wandering wishes long. 

From that day forth the hare, no longer mine, 

Made her abode in that same hollow bank 

Thick set with bushes, whence I saw her oft 

Come forth at morn and even to sport and feed ; 

And oft the truant slave, the wild maroon, 

With bold assurance leapt the garden fence 

For purposes of plunder. Base return 

For kind protection to her helpless state 

So long accorded ! nay, extended still 

To shield her from the penalty of guilt; 

For direful wrath in Ephraim's bosom rose — 

The dragon he, whose guardianship had rule 

Within the garden — when he found at morn 

Traces yet recent of the plunderer's work. 

His early lettuces all nibbled round, 

And ranks of tender pease — his fondest pride !— - 

Laid down in patches, where the audacious thief, 

Squatting composedly, had munched her fill. 

Dire was the wrath of Ephraim ! — much raved he 

Of traps, and guns, and vengeance — whence restrained 

By interdiction of the higher powers, 

He muttered 'twixt his teeth reflections keen 

About the blind indulgence of so7?iefolk 

For children's whimsies — " Who could keep, forsooth, 

A garden as it should be kept — not he — 



52 The Birthday. 

If noxious varmint was encouraged there ? 

What was the use of hares but for the spit ? 

He wished with all his heart that the whole race 

Was killed and spitted. Everything he did 

Was crossed and thwarted — mischief was at work 

In every corner. If he could but ketch 

Them folk that meddled when his back was turned 

Among his mousetraps ! 'Twas a thing unknown 

That mousetraps should be set from day to day 

With toasted cheese, and never catch a mouse." 

Ah, friend! "there are more things in heaven and 

earth " 
Than were dreamt of in thy philosophy. 
Yet Ephraim had his shrewd suspicions too, 
Though darkly hinted. There was meaning couched, 
Though little terror in his threatenings vague ; 
For he too loved me well — the kind old man ! 
And would have torn from his own reverend head 
The few white locks ere hurt a hair of mine. 
Who but old Ephraim treasured up for me 
The earliest strawberry, cunningly matured 
On the red plane of sun- reflecting tile ? 
Who laid aside for me the longest string 
Of clear white currants ? With inviting smile, 
Who dangled temptingly above my head 
Twin cherries ? — luscious prize ! soon caught and won — 
Who but old Ephraim, for his " little Queen," 
Picked out — his favourite emblem of herself — 
The smallest pippin with the pinkest cheek ? 
It pleased him that I took delight to watch 
His rural labours — that I asked the names 
Of seeds and plants, and when to sow and set, 
And their fixed season to bear flower and fruit. 



The Birthday. 53 

With patient seriousness he made reply 

To questions multiplying faster still 

Than he could answer. But it puzzled oft 

His honest head — no learned Pundit he — 

To solve the curious questions I proposed, 

Why such and such things were ; to which most part 

One answer served — incontrovertible, 

Oracular — " they were, because they were." 

Oh ! what a deal of mischief were unmade 

If Ignorance always on perplexing points 

Replied as prudently — if folks at least 

Pretended to teach only what they know. 

Young ladies ! how especially for you 

'Twould simplify the training ! No she-Crichtons, 

No petticoat professors would engage 

To teach all 'ologies and 'ographies, 

And everything in all the world — of course 

Accomplishments included — all complete 

In all their branches. What a load of rubbish, 

Now crammed, poor dears ! into your hapless brains, 

Would leave the much abused organ room 

To expand, and take in healthful nutriment. 

Wise, honest Ephraim ! Shall I leave unsung 
Thy skill in fashioning small wooden toys, 
Small tools, adapted to my pigmy grasp ? 
His hand is eagerly stretched out on whom 
Fortune bestows a sceptre ; his no less 
To whom she gives the baton of command, 
The marshal's truncheon ; and she smiles herself 
At his more solemn transport, from beneath 
The penthouse of enormous wig, who eyes 
The seals of office dangling in his reach. 
And bearded infants — babies six feet high, 



54 The Birthday. 

Scramble for glittering baubles ; ribbons, stars, 

And garters, that she jingles on a pole 

For prizes to the foremost in the race, 

Or who leaps highest, or with supplest joints 

Who twists, and turns, and creeps, and wriggles best. 

But none with greater eagerness than I 

From Ephraim's hand received the finished spade 

Whose small dimension might have served at need 

Some kitchen damsel for a tasting spoon, 

Albeit proportioned aptly for my use ; 

And other tools he fashioned, rakes and hoes, 

And oh ! sublime perfection of his craft, 

Most precious specimen ! his genius last 

Shaped out a wheelbarrow, and I attained, 

Possessed of that long-coveted machine, 

The climax of my wishes. What delight 

To cram it with such offsets, plants, and bulbs 

As Ephraim from his own neat borders cast; 

Then to wheel off the load, no matter what, 

To my own garden. Nought came then amiss 

Or out of season. Scions of tall trees, 

And bushy shrubs, that, had they taken root 

And flourished, would have filled the small domain ; 

And ragged pinks, with huge old scraggy roots, 

Past hope of e'er producing flower or bud, 

And plants full blown, that nothing lacked — but roots. 

But not unfrequently the wheelbarrow 

Was freighted with a living, yelping load — 

Old Chloe's puppies : she the while, poor fool ! 

Trotting beside with anxious look and whine 

Much eloquent of wonder and dismay 

And half displeased remonstrance, at the enforced 

And early travels of her progeny. 



The Birthday, . 55 

Many there are among Creation's Lords 

Whom Fashion wheels abroad — a listless load ! — 

As blind and senseless as those noisy whelps, — 

As blind to all the wonders in their way 

Of Art and Nature : with as senseless noise 

Chattering among themselves their mother-tongue 

In foreign lands, disdaining to acquire 

The useless knowledge — spiritless pursuit ! — 

Of a strange people's customs, arts, and speech ; 

And who return with minds as unenlarged, 

And skulls as empty, to their native land, 

As to their kennel Chloe's brood returned. 

But they, poor innocents ! were safe restored, 

With simple unsophisticated minds ; 

While two-legged puppies bring a cargo home 

Of affectation, pedantry, and vice. 

It is not all who having eyes can see, 

Or having ears can hear : that truth we learn 

From everyday experience. How it frets 

One's soul to be associated with those 

Deaf hearers, blind beholders ! Frets one more, 

That all the outward organs they possess, 

As it appears, unblemished. So we're led 

To utter freely what we warmly feel ; 

And then it proves that all the wires and pipes 

That should communicate 'twixt eyes and ears 

And the indwelling Soul, to empty cells 

Lead only, sending back response nor sound. 

Say with a friend we contemplate some scene 
Of natural loveliness, from which the heart 
Drinks in its fill of deep admiring joy ; 
Some landscape scene, all glorious with the glow 



56 The Birthday. 

Of summer evening, when the recent shower, 

Transient and sudden, all the diy white road 

Has moistened to red firmness ; every leaf, 

Washed from the dust, restored to glossy green ; — 

In such an evening oft the setting Sun, 

Flaming in gold and purple clouds, comes forth 

To take his farewell of our hemisphere ; 

Sudden the face of Nature brightens o'er 

With such effulgence, as no painter's art 

May imitate with faint similitude. 

The rain-drops dripping fast from every spray 

Are liquid topazes ; bright emeralds those 

Set on the green foil of the glistening leaves, 

And every little hollow, concave stone, 

And pebbly wheel-track, holds its sparkling pool 

Brimming with molten amber. Of those drops 

The Blackbird lights to drink ; then scattering thick 

A diamond shower among his dusty plumes, 

Flies up rejoicing to some neighbouring elm, 

And pours forth such a strain as wakens up 

The music of unnumbered choristers. 

Thus Nature to her great Creator hymns 

An hallelujah of ecstatic praise. 

And are our voices mute ? Oh, no ! we turn, 

Perhaps with glistening eyes, and our full heart 

Pours out in rapturous accents, broken words, 

Such as require no answer, but by speech 

As little measured, or that best reply, 

Feeling's true eloquence, a speaking look. 

But other answer waits us; for the friend — 

Oh, heaven ! that there are such — with a calm smile 

Of sweet no-meaning, gently answers — " Yes, 

Indeed it's very pretty— Don't you think 

It's getting late, though — time to go to tea ? " 



The Birthday. 57 

Some folks will tell you, of all things on earth 

They most like reading ; poetry with them 

Is quite a passion ; but somehow it is, 

They never find a moment's leisure time 

For things they dote on. What a life is theirs ! 

There's the new poem — they would give the world 

To skim it over, but it cannot be ; 

That trimming must be finished for the ball. 

If you indeed, who read aloud so well, 

With so much feeling, would but take the book — 

'Twould be so nice to listen ! such a treat ! 

And all the while the trimming might go on. 

You cannot have the heart to disappoint 

Wishes expressed so sweetly. Down you sit 

But unreluctant to the task, which soon 

Absorbs your every feeling. 'Tis perhaps 

Of Roderick, that immortal Goth, you read — 

Immortalised in verse that cannot die 

Till Poesy is dead, and every heart 

Warmed with her sacred fire a senseless clod. 

The first few pages smoothly on you go, 

Yourself delighted, and delighting much — 

So simply you believe — your hearers too. 

At length a whisper, audibly aside, 

Or 'cross the table, grates upon your ear, 

And brings you from the region of romance — 

" Dear! how provoking! have you seen my thread? — 

No — here it is — Oh ! pray don't stop — go on 

With that delightful story." 

On you go ; 
But scarce recover from that first rude shock, 
When lo ! a second. Deep debate ensues, 
Grave, solemn, nice, elaborate, profound, 



58 The Birthday. 

About the shade of some embroidered leaf, 

Whether too dark — or not quite dark enough — 

Or whether pea green were not after all 

Fitter than apple green. And there you sit 

Devoutly banning in your secret soul 

Balls, trimmings, and your own too easy faith 

In sympathy from hearers so engrossed. 

" Better leave off," you say, and close the book, 

" Till some more leisure morning." — But at once 

All voices clamour at the barbarous thought 

Of such adjournment : — And you recommence, 

Loath and disheartened ; but a lull succeeds 

Of seeming deep attention, and once more 

The noble song absorbs you, heart and soul. 

That part you reach, where the old Dog who lies 

Beside Rusilla, and, unnoticed, long 

Has eyed the dark-cowled Stranger; all at once, 

Confirmed by Love's strong instinct, crawls along 

And crouches at his royal Master's feet, 

And licks his hand, and gazes in his face 

" With eyes of human meaning." 

Then — just then— 
When trembling like a harp-string to the touch 
Of some impassioned harmonist, your voice 
Falters with strong emotion — 

"Oh'!" cries she, 
The passion of whose soul is poesy, 
'• That dear sweet dog! — It just reminds me, though, 
That poor Tonton was washed two hours ago, 
And I must go and comb him, pretty love ! 
So for this morning, though it breaks my heart, 
From that dear book I tear myself away." 
Ah, luckless reader! wilt thou e'er again 
On such as these expend thy precious breath? 



The Birthday. 59 

Some travelled exquisites profess a taste — 

" Gusto," they call it — for the sister art — 

For painting, Heaven preserve us from such taste ! 

These learnedly harangue on breadth and depth, 

Gradation, concentration, keeping, tone, 

Tint, glazing, chiaroscuro, and what not. 

At some old picture — moderns cannot paint — 

Some smoke-dyed canvass, where experienced eyes 

In the brown chaos may distinguish form, 

Lo ! where they gaze with reverential awe, 

Peer through the focus of their rounded hand, 

With features screwed up to the exactest pitch 

Of connoisseurship — fall enraptured back, 

With head aside, and eyes all puckered up 

Obliquely glancing — then with folded arms 

They stand entranced, and gaze, and sigh, and gaze, 

And mutter ecstasies between their teeth — 

" Divine! incomparable! grand! unique!" 

Less learned critics condescend to admire 

Some amateur production — yours perhaps ; 

These, little skilled in jargon technical 

Of conoscenti, murmur gentle praise. 

Holding your drawing to their eyes quite close, 

As 'twere a newspaper, and they perplexed 

To make out the small print, "Dear me!" they 

cry, 
" How nice ! how natural ! how very soft ! " 
These phrases serve, or some as richly fraught 
With meaning, for all subjects and all styles ; 
Or, if with more discriminating taste, 
They own a preference, it falls, be sure, 
On the most worthless, whose tame character 
Is in this gentle phrase — " So very soft ! " 



60 The Birthday. 

Inflict not on me, Stars ! the killing blight 
Of such companionship. Oh ! rather far 
Assign me for my intimate and friend 
One who says plainly, " I confess to me 
Painting's but coloured canvass, music noise, 
And poetry prose spoilt, those rural scenes 
Whereon you gaze enraptured, nothing more 
Than hill and dale and water, wooded well 
With stout oak timber groaning for the axe." 

'Twixt such a heart and mine there must be still 
A bar, oft painfully perceived indeed, 
And never overstepped : But I could feel 
Respect — affection — confidence for such, 
If dignified with sound clear-judging sense 
And piety, that gem beyond all price, 
Wherewith compared all gifts are valueless. 

It is not once an age two hearts are set 
So well in unison that not a note 
Jars in their music ; but a skilful hand 
Slurs lightly over the discordant tones, 
And wakens only the full power of those 
That sound in concord. 

Happy, happy those 
Who thus perform the grand concerto — Life ! 



The Birthday. 61 



PART THE THIRD. 



CONTENTS. 



The Old Milestone. — Angling. — Royden Stream. — The Sylvan Feast. 
— Age of Intellect. — Afternoon. — Isaac Walton. — A Bitter Night. — 
The Farmer.— The Pet Lamb.— Our Old Garden.— Painting.— The 
Altar. — Priscilla. — Tea-Drinking. — Curiosities. — The Cuckoo Clock. 
—William Gilpin.— The Visit.— The Vicarage.— The Study. 

Old friend ! old stone ! old way-mark ! art thou gone ? 

I could have better spared a better thing 

Than sight of thy familiar shapeless form, 

Defaced and weather-stained. But thus it is 

Where'er I turn me, wheresoe'er I look, 

Change, change, change, change, is everywhere at work 

In all mine ancient haunts. Grammercie, though ! 

Reform — improvement, is the proper word. 

We live, God wot ! in an improving age, 

And our old world, if it last long enough, 

Will reach perfection. Lo ! conceptions vast 

Germ not alone in patriot statesman's mind 

Or great philanthropist's. Our public men — 

Ours in this rural district nook o' the world, 

" Armed with a little brief authority," 

Wield it like Jove's own thunder, and affect 

The Olympic nod. Would they had nodded off 

Their sapient heads, ere, in an evil hour, 

Beautiful elms ! your spreading branches fell, 

Because, forsooth, across the King's highway, 

Conspiring with the freeborn, " chartered " air, 

Your verdant branches treasonably waved, 

And swung perchance the pendant dewdrops off 



6 2 The Birthday. 

On roof of royal mail, or in the eyes 

Of sleepy coachman wakened so full well 

For safety of his snoring "four insides," 

Unconscious innocents ! — or on his pate — 

His awful pate— even his, mine ancient foe, 

Your ruthless enemy — the man of power, 

Of measurement, and Acts of Parliament, 

The great road dragon — man of flinty heart — 

Belike ye showered the liquid crystal down, 

Irreverend boughs ! and so your fate was sealed. 

But, veteran oak ! what rank offence was thine ? 

In memory of man thou hadst not flung 

One flickering shadow 'thwart the royal road, 

Nor intercepted sunbeam from the head 

Of noontide traveller. Only left of thee 

The huge old trunk, still verdant in decay 

With ivy garlands, and a tender growth — 

Like second childhood — of thine own young shoots ; 

And there, like giant guardian of the pass, 

Thou stoodst, majestic ruin ! thy huge roots, 

Whose every fretted niche and mossy cave 

Harboured a primrose, grappling the steep bank, 

A wayside rampart. Lo ! they've rent away 

The living bulwark now — a ghastly breach, 

A crumbling hollow left to mark its site 

And the proud march of utilitarian zeal. 

And the old thorns are gone — the thorns I loved, 
For that in childhood I could reach and pluck 
Their first sweet blossoms. They were low, like me ; 
Young, lowly bushes — I a little child ; 
And we grew up together. They are gone : 
And the great elder by the mossy pales — 
How sweet the blackbird sang in that old tree ! 



The Birthday. 6$ 

Sweeter, methinks, than now, from statelier shades — 

They've felled that too, the goodly, harmless thing ! 

That with its fragrant clusters overhung 

Our garden hedge, and furnished its rich store 

Of juicy berries for the Christmas wine, 

Spicy and hot, and its round hollow stems, 

The pith extracted, for quaint arrow-heads, 

Such as my father in our archery games 

Taught me to fashion. That they've ta'en away, 

And so some relic daily disappears, 

Something I've loved and prized ; and now the last — 

Almost the last — the poor old milestone falls, 

And in its place this smooth, white, perked-up thing, 

With its great staring figures. 

Well, well, well ! 
All's doubtless as it should be. Were my will 
The rule of action, strange results, I doubt, 
Would shock the rational community. 
No farmer round should clip one straggling hedge, 
No road-surveyor change one rugged stone, 
Howe'er illegible its lettered face, 
Nor pare, nor trim, nor chop one craggy bank, 
Nor lop one wayside tree, although its boughs 
Arched all the royal road. I'd have the road 
One bowery arch — what matter if so low 
No mail might pass beneath ? For aught I care 
The post might come on foot, or not at all, 
At least with tidings of the troublous world. 
In short — in short, it's quite as well, perhaps, 
I can but rail — not rule. Splenetic words 
Will not tack on again dissevered boughs, 
Nor set up the old -stone; so let me breathe 
The fulness of a vexed spirit out 
In impotent murmurs. 



64 The Birthday. 

Gentles, could you guess 
What thoughts, what feelings, what remembrances 
Are in my mind associated with sight 
Of that cold senseless stone, that shapeless thing 
Which there lies postrate, ye would smile perhaps, 
But not methinks in scornful wonderment 
At the strange utterings of my wayward mood. 
Here, to this very spot, the guardian hand 
Still clasping mine, with tottering steps I came, 
A good half mile from home — my first long walk — 
The first remembered. Here, the goal attained, 
They set me up on the old stone to rest, 
And called me woman ! — Baby now no more, 
Who walked so stoutly ; filled my lap with flowers, 
And pulled within my reach the woodbine down, 
That I might pluck, with mine own eager hand, 
A wreath for Dido's neck. She sat beside, 
The grave old creature, with her large brown eyes 
Intently, as in delegated watch, 
Fixed on her master's child. Soon came the days, 
When his companion — his, his only one, 
My father's — I became. Proud, happy child ! 
Untiring now in many a lengthened walk, 
Yet resting oft, his arm encircling me, 
On the old milestone in our homeward way. 

My father loved the patient angler's art ; 
And many a summer day, from early morn 
To latest evening, by some streamlet's side 
We two have tarried. Strange companionship ! 
A sad and silent man — a joyous child. 
Yet were those days, as I recall them now, 
Supremely happy. Silent though he was, 
My father's eyes were often on his child, 



The Birthday. 65 

Tenderly eloquent, and his few words 

Were kind and gentle. Never angry tone 

Repulsed me, if I broke upon his thoughts 

With childish question. But I learnt at last, 

Learnt intuitively, to hold my peace 

When the dark hour was on him, and deep sighs 

Spoke the perturbed spirit : only then 

I crept a little closer to his side, 

And stole my hand in his, or on his arm 

Laid my cheek softly, till the simple wile 

Won on his sad abstraction, and he turned 

With a faint smile, and sighed, and shook his head, 

Stooping toward me : so I reached at last 

Mine arm about his neck, and clasped it close, 

Printing his pale brow with a silent kiss. 

That was a lovely brook, by whose green marge 
We two, the patient angler and his child, 
Loitered away so many summer days ! 
A shallow sparkling stream, it hurried, now 
Leaping and glancing among large round stones, 
With everlasting friction chafing still 
Their polished smoothness, on a gravelly bed 
Then softly slipped away with rippling sound, 
Or all inaudible where the green moss 
Sloped down to meet the clear reflected wave 
That lipped its emerald bank with seeming show 
Of gentle dalliance; in a dark, deep pool 
Collected now, the peaceful waters slept, 
Embayed by rugged headlands, hollow roots 
Of huge old pollard willows. Anchored there, 
Rode safe from every gale a sylvan fleet 
Of milk-white water-lilies, every bark 
Worthy as those on his own sacred flood 
E 



66 The Birthday. 

To waft the Indian Cupid. Then the stream 

Brawling again o'er pebbly shallows ran, 

On, on to where a rustic, rough-hewn bridge, 

All bright with mosses and green ivy wreaths, 

Spanned the small channel with its single arch; 

And underneath the bank on either side 

Shelved down into the water, darkly green 

With unsunned verdure, or whereon the sun 

Looked only when his rays at eventide 

Obliquely glanced between the blackened piers 

With arrowy beams of orient emerald light 

Touching the river and its velvet marge. 

'Twas there, beneath the archway, just within 

Its rough misshapen piles, I found a cave, 

A little secret cell — one large flat stone 

Its ample floor, imbedded deep in moss, 

And a rich tuft of dark blue violet ; 

And fretted o'er with curious groining dark, 

Like vault of Gothic chapel, was the roof 

Of that small cunning cave — " The Naiad's Grot" 

I named it learnedly, for I had read 

About Egeria, and was deeply versed 

In heathenish stories of the guardian tribes 

In groves, and single trees, and sylvan streams 

Abiding co-existent. So methought 

The little Naiad of our brook might^haunt 

That cool retreat, and to her guardian care 

My wont was ever, at the bridge arrived, 

To trust our basket, with its simple store 

Of home-made, wholesome cates, by one at home 

Provided for our banquet-hour at noon. 

A joyful hour ! anticipated keen, 
With zest of youthful appetite I trow, 



The Birthday. 67 

Full oft expelling unsubstantial thoughts 

Of Grots and Naiads, sublimated fare. 

The busy, bustling joy, with housewife airs — 

Directress, handmaid, lady of the feast — 

To spread that " table in the wilderness " ! 

The spot selected with deliberate care, 

Fastidious from variety of choice, 

Where all was beautiful : some pleasant nook 

Among the fringing alders, or beneath 

A single spreading oak, or higher up 

Within the thicket, a more secret bower, 

A little clearing, carpeted all o'er 

With creeping strawberry, and greenest moss 

Thick veined with ivy. There unfolded smooth 

The snowy napkin, carefully secured 

At every corner with a pebbly weight, 

Was spread prelusive — fairly garnished soon 

With the contents, most interesting then, 

Of the well-plenished basket : simple viands, 

And sweet brown bread, and biscuits for dessert, 

And rich, ripe cherries ; and two slender flasks, 

Of cyder one, and one of sweet new milk, 

Mine own allotted beverage, tempered down 

To wholesome thinness by admixture pure 

From the near streamlet. Two small silver cups 

Set out our grand buffet — and all was done. 

But there I stood immovable, entranced, 

Absorbed in admiration, shifting oft 

My ground contemplative to reperuse 

In every point of view the perfect whole 

Of that arrangement, mine own handiwork. 

Then glancing skyward, if my dazzled eyes 

Shrank from the sunbeams, vertically bright,, 

Away, away, toward the river's brink 



68 The Bii'thday. 

I ran to summon from his silent sport 

My father to the banquet, tutored well, 

As I approached his station, to restrain 

All noisy outbreak of exuberant glee, 

Lest from their quiet haunts the finny prey 

Should dart far off to deeper solitudes. 

The gentle summons met observance prompt, 

Kindly considerate of the famished child : 

And all in order left; the mimic fly 

Examined and renewed, if need required, 

Or changed for other sort, as time of day, 

Or clear or clouded sky, or various signs 

Of atmosphere or water, so advised 

The experienced angler ; the long line afloat, 

The rod securely fixed, then into mine 

The willing hand was yielded, and I led 

With joyous exultation that dear guest 

To our green banquet-room. Not Leicester's self, 

When to the hall of princely Kenilworth 

He led Elizabeth, exulted more 

With inward gratulation at the show 

Of his own proud magnificence, than I, 

When full in view of mine arranged feast, 

I held awhile my pleased companion back, 

Exacting wonder, admiration, praise, 

With pointing finger, and triumphant " There!" 

Our meal concluded — or, as Homer says, 

" Soon as the rage of hunger was appeased " — 

And by the way, our temperate sylvan feast 

Deserved poetic illustration more 

Than those vast hecatombs of filthy swine, 

Where Trojans, Greeks, and half-immortals gorged, 



The Birthday. 69 

Sharpening their wits for council. Process strange ! 

But most effectual, doubtless, as we see 

Clearly illustrated in this our day, 

In this our favoured isle, where all affairs 

(Glory to Britain's intellectual age !) 

Begin and end with feasting. Statesmen meet 

To eat and legislate ; to eat and hang x 

Judges assemble ; chapters congregate 

To eat and order spiritual affairs ; 

Philhellenists to eat and free the Greeks ; 

Committees of Reform, Relief, Conversion, 

Eat with amazing unction : and so on, 

Throughout all offices, sects, parties, grades, 

Down to the Parish worthies, who assemble 2 

In conclave snug to eat, and starve the poor. 

Our banquet over — nor omitted then 

Grateful acknowledgment for good received 

From Him whose open hand all living things 

" Filleth with plenteousness " — my dear companion 

Sought once again the river's flowery marge, 

To me committing — as the spreading out — 

The gathering up all fragments of the feast, 

" That nothing might be lost." Instruction wise, 

By simple illustration well enforced ; 

Nor strained to Pharisaic meaning hard, 

Forbidding to communicate the good 

Abundantly bestowed. So liberal dole 

I scattered round for the small feathered things 

Who from their leafy lodges all about 

Had watched the strange intruders and their ways, 

And eyed the feast with curious wistfulness, 

Half longing to partake. Some bold, brave bird, 

He of the crimson breast, approaching near 



70 The Birthday. 

And near and nearer, till his little beak 
Made prize of tempting crumb, and off he flew 
Triumphant, to return — permitted thief — 
More daringly familiar. 

Neatly packed 
Napkin and cups, with the diminished store 
Of our well-lightened basket ; largess left 
For our shy woodland hosts ; some special treat 
In forked branch or hollow trunk for him, 
The prettiest, merriest, with his frolic leaps 
And jet-black sparkling eyes, and mimic wrath 
Clacking loud menace — yet before me lay 
The long bright summer evening. Was it long, 
Tediously long, in prospect ? Nay, good sooth ! 
The hours in Eden never swifter flew 
With Eve yet innocent, than fled with me 
Their course by thy fair stream, sweet Royden Vale ! 

The stream, the mead, herb, insect, flower, and leaf,\ 

Sunbeam and shadow, all, as I have said, 

Were books to me, companionable things ; 

But lack of other volume, Man's device, 

Was none, when, turning from the outspread scroll 

Of beauteous Nature, sweet repose I sought 

In varied pleasure. In a certain pouch, 

Ample and deep, the Fisher's coat within, 

Lurked an old clumsy russet-covered book, 

That with permitted hand extracted thence — 

(I see the smile to the young smiling thief 

Vouching impunity) — for many an hour 

Furnished enjoyment, flavoured not the less 

For oft renewed experience intimate. 

Just where the river with a graceful curve 

Darkened and deepened in the leafy gloom 



The Birthday. 7 1 

Of a huge pollard oak, a snug retreat 

I found me at the foot of that old tree, 

Within the grotto-work of its vast roots, 

From whose fantastic arches, high upheaved, 

Sprang plumy clusters of the jewelled fern, 

And adder's-tongue, and ivy wreaths hung down 

Festooning elegant, soft greenest moss 

Flooring the fairy cave, the tempered light, 

As through an emerald roof, stole gently in, 

Caressingly, and played in freckling gleams 

On the dark surface of the little pool, 

Where as it seemed the lingering stream delayed 

As loath its brawling course to recommence 

In glaring sunshine. Ah ! could we delay 

Time's current, as it bears us through some reach 

Where the rough stream sinks waveless, peace-embayed! 

The river at my feet, its mossy bank 
Clipped by that caverned oak, my pleasant seat, 
Still as an image in its carved shrine 
I nestled in my sylvan niche, like hare 
Upgathered in her form, upon my keees 
The open book, o'er which I stooped intent, 
Half-hidden, the large hat flung careless off, 
In a gold gleaming shower of auburn curls. 
Ah, gentle Isaac ! by what glamourie 
Chained ye the eyes of restless childhood down 
To pages penned for other readers far, 
Mature and manly? What concern of mine 
Thy learned lessons to the docile twain, 
Thy some time pupils ? What concern of mine 
Thy quaint directions how to dress a chub ? 
Or bait the barbed hook with hapless frog, 
" Lovingly handled " ? What concern of mine 



7 2 The Birthday. 

Thy merry meetings at that rural hostel 
With the fair hostess — lavender in the window, 
And " twenty ballads stuck about the wall"? 
Yet sure I longed to share of that same chub, 
And took no thought how that unlucky frog 
Relished such loving treatment ; and full fain 
Would have made one at that same merry board, 
And drank in with insatiate ear thy words, 
Rich in the truest wisdom, for throughout, 
(Hallowing whate'er of homely, quaint, and coarse 
Might shock fastidious taste, less pure than nice), 
The love of God, and Man, and holy Nature 
Breathed like the fragrance of a precious gum 
From consecrated censer. Then those scraps 
From the olden poets — " the divine Du Bartas," 
And "holy Master Herbert," and Kit Marlowe, 
Whose ballad by the modest Milkmaid sung 
Combined methought sweet strain of sweetest bird, 
And pleasant melody of trickling rill, 
And hum of bees, and every natural tone 
Most musical. And then what dear delight 
Beneath the sheltering honeysuckle hedge 
To share thy leafy covert, while ' ' the shower 3 
Fell gently down upon the teeming earth, 
From the green meadows all with flowers bedecked 
Wakening delicious odours ; while the birds' 
Friendly contention, from a grove hard by, 
Held with an echo, whose dead voice did live — ■ 
So seeming — in a hollow tree high up 
Crowning the primrose knoll." Ah, gentle Isaac! 
How could I choose but love thy precious book, 
Then in that blessed springtime of my life 
When life was joy, this fair earth paradise, 
And thine a master-key, in its green glades 



The Birthday. 73 

Opening innumerous paths ! I love thee still 
With an exceeding love, old battered book ! 
And from thy time-discoloured leaves outsteal 
Methinks sweet breathings of that merry May 
So long o'erpast. My Winter is at hand — 
Summer departed, Autumn on the wane — 
But as I read, and dream, and smile, and sigh, 
Old feelings stir within me, old delights 
Kindle afresh, and all the past comes back 
With such a rush, as to its long-dried bed 
The waters of a stream for many a year 
Pent from its natural course. 

Oh ! nothing dies — 
Nothing is lost or wholly perisheth 
That God hath called good, and given to Man, 
Worth his immortal keeping. Let them go, 
Let them pass from me like a troubled dream, 
The things of this world ; bitter apples all, 
Like those by the Dead Sea, that mock the eye 
With outward fairness, ashes at the core. 
Let this frail body perish day by day, 
And to the dust go down, and be resolved 
Thereunto — earth to earth : but I shall live 
In spiritual identity unchanged, 
And take with me where happy spirits dwell 
(Through Christ, the door, I hope admittance there) 
All thoughts, desires, affections, memories 
Sealed with the heavenly stamp, and set apart — 
Made worthy — for duration infinite. 

" This is a bitter night for the young lambs," 
My father said, and shivering drew his chair 
Close in to the warm hearth. " The biting air, 
When I looked out but now, was thick with snow 



74 The Birthday, 

Fast driven in furious gusts — and hark ! that's hail 
Clattering against the window." 

To the storm 
Listening a moment, with a pitying thought 
For houseless wanderers, to our dear fireside 
We turned with grateful hearts, and sweetest sense 
Of comfort and security, that each 
Reflected in the other's face, read plain 
As in a page of some familiar book 
Long learned by heart. 

" Cary ! what makes you sigh 
And look so sad i' th' sudden ? ' ' asked my mother, 
As, letting fall my pencil, I rose up, 
And, stealing to my father's side, drew close 
The little stool, my own peculiar seat, 
And, leaning on his knee, looked earnest up, 
With that long deep-drawn breath, that ends so oft 
Childhood's reflective pause. 

" I'm thinking, mother, 
Of what my father said about the lambs — 
What will become of them this bitter night, 
Poor little pretty creatures ? We looked at them 
A long, long while, on our way home to-day, 
While with their mothers they were folded up 
By the old shepherd. Some could hardly stand, 
So very weak they were, so very young ! 
Don't you remember, father ! you said then 
A cold hard night would kill them." 

"Did I, child? 
Well, this is cold enough. But then the shepherd 

Will take good heed to them — and- Little girl ! 

Have you not heard, and read, and learnt, how God 
' Tempers the wind to the shorn lamb ' ? So these, 
Helpless and tender as they are, His eye 
Still watcheth, and His guardian care protects." 



The Birthday. 7 5 

" Oh ! but I wish " unuttered was the wish ; 

For the door opened, and a burly form, 
Much like a walking bear, the hairy cap, 
And shaggy wrapping coat, all white with snow, 
Announced by baying house-dogs, and shown in 
With little form by Joe, within the room 
Advanced a step or two, in country fashion, 
Scraping obeisance. Up sprung old Di, 
With hostile growling, from her master's feet ; 
But sniffing round the stranger, in a moment 
Dropping her tail, she came contented back 
To her warm station. 

" What's the matter, Farmer, 
That you're abroad so late this blusterous night ? " 
My father, with a friendly greeting, asked ; 
" My little lassie, here, was just bewailing 
For your young lambs — but they're all snug, I guess.'' 

* * Ay, ay, sir ! thank ye kindly, snug enough ; 

And many thanks to Miss, God bless her heart ! " 

He added, with a loving look at me, 

Who had stolen round by this to my old friend, 

Admiring much his bruin-like aspect. 

A knowing twinkle with that loving look 

Was mingled ; and his bluff good-natured face 

Brightened with kindliness, as he went on : — 

" I'll lay my life on't, Miss will never guess 
What I've got here, all cuddled up so warm 
Under my old greatcoat. And yet, Lord love her ! 
The thijig's for her, whatever it may be ! " 

Then there was wonder and impatient joy, 
And jumping round and round, and 



7 6 The Birthday. 

" Oh, dear Farmer ! 
Is it alive ? — what is it ? — let me look — 
Only one peep." — And eagerly I pulled 
At the wet shaggy coat. 

' 'Just let me ><?//" 
Then with feigned caution he admitted slow 
One little curious hand. 

" How soft — how warm ! — 
It's a young kitten ! " 

" Kitten ! — sure I'd scorn 
To bring such vermin." 

' ' Well, a rabbit, then — 
Or — no — I'm sure now it's a guinea-pig — 
Isn't it, Farmer? " 

" Guinea pigs don't bleat — ■ 
Hearken ! " 

" Oh mercy !— it's a little lamb ! " 

" My Missis said 'twas just the thing for Miss, 

When Amos brought it in an hour agone 

From the dead ewe. The poor dumb brute had three, 

This only living ; well enough for strength, 

Considering: and Miss will mud* it up, 

I know, as clever as a little queen, 

If I may leave it for her." 

If!— that if 
Checked in a moment my ecstatic fit, 
And a quick glance imploringly I turned 
To the parental faces. Smiles were there, 
But not consenting ones — and heads were shaken, 
And sage remonstrance was preparing plain, 
And lips were opened; but I stopt them quick 

* Mud — Provincial. 



The Birthday, 77 

With smothering kisses, and — the lamb was mine. 

And thanks to Lydia, maiden most expert 

In things pertaining to the dairy's charge, 

And country matters — ever mine ally, 

Ready and faithful — the small creature throve 

As though the mother's milk and her strong love — 

Nature's unerring course — had nurtured it ; 

And from a tender fondling, soon became 

My mate and playfellow. Such friends we were — 

Willy and I ! Inseparable friends, 

In door and out — up-stairs and down — where'er 

My step was heard, the little pattering hoofs 

Close following, or before me, sounded too. 

Only at lesson time awhile disjoined 

The fond companionship. Good reason why — 

The pupil never much renowned at best 

For patient application; little chance 

Was there of any, when that gamesome thing 

Made scoff of learning, and its teachers grave ; 

Upsetting inkstands — nibbling copy-books— 

And still provoking to irreverent mirth 

With some new merry mischief. 

Time went on — 
More wondrous had he stopt — and winsome Willy, 
The pet lamb still, drew near to ram's estate — 
Then 'gan affairs to alter. Budding horns, 
Fondled at first, grew formidable things, 
And pretty freedoms to audacious onslaughts. 
Old Di was sent off howling — from the lines 
Linen hooked down and tattered — maids laid 

sprawling — 
And visitors attacked, and butchers' boys, 
And bakers, with their trays and baskets, butted, 
And forced to fly and hallo for th eir lives. 



7 8 The Birthday. 

Our mutual love still perfect, I alone 
'Scaped molestation, threatening life or limb ; 
Only for summer wear more cool and airy 
The muslin frocks were made, by sundry slits 
From top to bottom, and large eyelet holes ; 
But that was all in sport — no harm intended — 
And I the last to take offence at things 
Concerning only those who had to mend 
Or to replace my wardrobe. But all hearts 
Were not so placable, and day by day 
Dark looks and angry murmurs darker grew, 
And waxed more wrathful. 

" 'Twas not to be borne : 
The beast was dangerous : some serious mischief 
Would come of it at last ; it must be seen to." 
O Willy ! Willy ! how I quaked for fear 
At those vague threatenings, with ingenious art 
Concealing or excusing as I could 
Thine oft delinquencies. But all in vain ; 
The fatal day, long dreaded, came at last. 
It was the time of blossoms, and my father, 
Who in " trim gardens" much delight did take, 
Was scanning with a gardener's prideful eye 
His neat espaliers ; every well-trained branch 
Thick set with bloom — deep blushing like the morn, 
Or fainter tinged, or snow-white, of each sort 
Indicative, and its abundant fruit. Fair show ! 
Pvich promise ! Many a season cold, unkind, 
Had nipped the gardener's hope since such was 

seen — 
' ' If frost returns not, and no cruel blight 
Comes near us " — with exultant hope broke forth 
My father's meditation — when, alas ! 
Destruction was at hand, and in mid speech 



The Birthday. 79 

He stopt astounded. Frost nor blight most dire 

So direful as the sight of visible mischief 

Personified in Willy's form, at work 

Ten paces off, where thick as snowflakes fell 

A shower of milk-white blossoms. Glorious sport ! 

Another butting charge, and down they come, 

Whitening the walk and border. 

"Help! help! help! 
Ho, Ephraim ! Ephraim ! " At the call appear 
More than the summoned — rushes out amain 
The gaping household, mistress, maids, and man, 
And I, half guilty, much confounded cause 
Remote, of all the evil, helpless then 
To stay its progress. 

" Here he is — here ! here ! 
Stop him — he's off again ! " 

" Where ? where ? " " There, there ! " 
Down comes the flowery rain — that shake will do 
For the old golden rennet — fair pearmain ! 
Thy turn comes next — and next — 

" Destruction ! death ! 
There goes the gansels bergamy — will no one 
Stop the cursed brute ? " 

How beautiful he looked ! — 
Even in my shame and terror so I thought — 
W T hen at safe distance he stood still and gazed 
At his pursuers with provoking air 
Of innocent wonder, dangling from his mouth 
A bunch of apple blossoms, now and then 
Mumbled in wantonness. 

" Confound him ! there ! 
He's at the golden pippin. W T here's the gun? 
Joe ! run and fetch it — or — hold, hold — a rope ! 
We'll noose the rascal ! " 



80 The Birthday. 

Oh, my heart ! my heart ! 
How died ye at the sound of guns and ropes ! 
But capture was not death ; and he was caught — 
Caught and led up to judgment. Willy ! Willy ! 
That ever to such strait and to such woe 
Thine evil courses should have brought us both ! 
For the decree went forth that parted us, 
Thou to return to thy first owner's flock, 
And I, bereaved, to mourn my merry mate. 
Ah, doleful day ! when for the last, last time 
We two went forth together, thou, poor fool ! 
In thine unconscious gladness by my side 
Trotting contentedly, though every step 
Took thee to exile nearer, and my tears 
Fell fast as summer raindrops. How I clung, 
When to the farm we came, with sobbing clasp 
About thy snowy neck, refusing comfort, 
Although they told me, to assuage my grief, 
A many flattering tales of good designed, 
Peculiar good to thee. Thou wert to range 
For life respected, master of the flock, 
To crop the sweetest herbage, and be housed, 
When winter came, in warm luxurious crib. 
" But shall I see him sometimes?" 

* * Ay, ay, sure, 
Often and often, when the flock comes back 
From the far pastures." 

Back it came — alas ! 
I saw not Willy — saw him never more ; 
But half deluded still by glozing words, 
I thought not, witless ! of the butcher's cart, 
Nor transmutation fell, by murderous sleight, 
Of sheep to mutton. To thy manes peace, 
Offending favourite, wheresoe'er thy grave ! 



The Birthday. 81 

Dear garden ! once again, with lingering look, 
Reverted, half remorseful, let me dwell 
Upon thee as thou wert in that old time 
Of happy days departed. Thou art changed, 
And I have changed thee. Was it wisely done ? 
Wisely and well, they say who look thereon 
With unimpassioned eye, cool, clear, undimmed 
By moisture such as memory gathers oft 
In mine, while gazing on the things that are, 
Not with the hallowed past, the loved, the lost, 
Associated as those I now retrace 
With tender sadness. The old shrubbery walk, 
Straight as an arrow, was less graceful far 
Than this fair winding among flowers and turf, 
Till with an artful curve it sweeps from sight 
To reappear again, just seen and lost 
Among the hawthorns in the little dell. 
Less lovely the old walk ; but there I ran 
Holding my mother's hand, a happy child ; 
There were her steps imprinted, and my father's, 
And those of many a loved one, now laid low 
In his last resting-place. No flowers, methinks, 
That now I cultivate are half so sweet, 
So bright, so beautiful, as those that bloomed 
In the old formal borders. These clove pinks 
Yield not such fragrance as the true old sort 
That spiced our pot-pourri, my mother's pride, 
With such peculiar richness ; and this rose, 
With its fine foreign name, is scentless, pale, 
Compared with the old cabbage — those that blushed 
In the thick hedge of spiky lavender, 
Such lavender as is not nowadays ; 
And gillyflowers are not as they were then, 
Sure to " come double ;" and the night breeze now 
F 



Si The Birthday. 

Sighs not so loaded with delicious scents 
Of lily and sevinger. Oh, my heart ! 
Is all indeed so altered ? — or art thou 
The changeling, sore aweary now at times 
Of all beneath the sun ? 

Such weariness 
Knows not that blessed spring-time of the heart 
When " treasures dwell in flowers." How glad was I, 
How joyously exultant, when I found 
Such virtues in my flowery treasury 
As hitherto methought discoverer's eye 
Had passed unheeded ! Here at once I found, 
Unbought, unsued for, the desired command — 
How longingly desired ! — of various dyes, 
Wherewith to tint the semblance incomplete 
In its hard pencil outline, of those forms 
Of floral loveliness, whose juices now 
Supplied me with a palette of all hues, 
Bright as the rainbow. Brushes lacked I none 
For my rude process, the soft flower or leaf 
Serving for such ; its moisture nice expressed 
By a small cunning hand, where'er required 
The imitative shadow to perfect 
With glowing colour. Heavens ! how plain I see, 
Even at this moment, the first grand result 
Of that occult invention. There it lies, 
Living as life itself (I thought no less), 
A sprig of purple stock, that dullest eye 
Must have detected, and fault-finding critic 
Have owned at least a likeness. Mother's love 
Thought it perfection, when with stealing step 
And flushing face and conscious, I drew near, 
And laid it on her lap without a word, 
Then hung upon her shoulder, shrinking back 



The Birthday. $3 

With a child's bashfulness, all hope and fear, 
Shunning and courting notice. 

But I kept 
Profoundly secret certain floral rites 
Observed with piously romantic zeal 
Through half a summer. Heaven forgave full sure 
The unconscious profanation ; and the sin, 
If sin there was, be on thy head, old friend, 
Pathetic Gesner ! for thy touching song, 
That most poetic prose, recording sad 
The earliest annals of the human race, 
And death's first triumph, filled me, heart and 

brain, 
With stirring fancies, in my very dreams 
Exciting strange desires to realise 
What to the inward vision was revealed, 
Haunting it like a passion. For I saw, 
Plain as in substance, that first human home 
In the first earthly garden ; — saw the flowers 
Set round her leafy bower by banished Eve, 
And watered with her tears, as they recalled 
Faintly the forfeit Eden ; the small rills 
She taught to wander 'mongst their blooming tribes, 
Completing, not the semblance, but the shade. 
But beautiful, most beautiful, methought 
The altar of green turf, whereon were laid 
Offerings as yet unstained with blood — choice fruits, 
And fairest flowers fresh culled. ' 

' * And God must still ' ' — 
So with myself I argued — "surely love 
Such pure, sweet offerings. There can be no harm 
In laying them, as Eve was wont, each day 
On such an altar. What if I could make 
Something resembling that ! " To work I went, 



84 The Birthday. 

With the strong purpose which is strength and power; 

And in a certain unfrequented nook 

Of our long rambling garden, fenced about 

By thorns and bushes, thick with summer leaves, 

And threaded by a little watercourse — 

No substitute contemptible, methought, 

For Eve's meandering rills — uprose full soon 

A mound of mossy turf, that when complete 

I called an altar ; and with simple faith, 

Ay, and with feelings of adoring love 

Hallowing the childish error, laid thereon 

Daily my floral tribute ; yet from prayer, 

Wherewith I longed to consecrate the act, 

Refraining with an undefined fear, 

Instinctive of offence : and there was doubt 

Of perfect blamelessness, unconscious doubt, 

In the suspicious, unrelaxing care 

With which I kept my secret. All's not well, 

When hearts, that should be open as the day, 

Shrink from inspection. So by slow degrees 

I grew uneasy and afraid, and longed 

To cast off the strange burden ; and at last, 

Ceasing my visits to '■ the sacred grove," 

I soon forgot, absorbed in fresh pursuits, 

The long-neglected altar — till one day, 

When coming winter, with his herald blasts, 

Had thinned the covert's leafmess, I saw 

Old Ephraim in his clearing progress pause, 

And strike his spade against a mossy heap, 

Washed low by autumn's rains, and littered round 

Among the thick -strewn leaves with spars and 

shells, 
And broken pottery, and shrivelled things 
That had been garlands. 



The Birthday. 85 

" This is Missy's work," 
Quoth the old man, and shook his head, and smiled ; 
' ' Lord bless her ! how the child has toiled and moiled 
To scrape up all this rubbish. Here's enough 
To load a jackass ! " 

Desecrated shrine ! 
Such was thy fate, demolished as he spoke ; 
And of my Idyl the concluding page. 

" The Thane of Fife," said some one, " hath a wife ; " 

And so had Ephraim — a precise old dame, 

Looking like ancient waxwork ; her small face, 

Of lemon- coloured hue — framed closely round 

With most elaborate quilling — puckered up 

To such prim fixedness, the button mouth 

Scarcely relaxed into a button-hole 

When with a smile distended ; and the eyes, 

Two small black beads, but twinkled, never moved. 

And mincing was her speech, and picked withal, 

Dainty and delicate, as was her frame, 

Like an old fairy's. She had spent her youth, 

And prime, and middle age — two-thirds of life- — 

In service of a maiden gentlewoman 

Of the old buckram sort, wellnigh extinct, 

Prudent, and formal, and fantastical, 

Much given to nervous tremors and hysterics, 

Flutterings and qualms, and godly books, and tales 

Of true love crossed, and dreams, and pious courtship. 

Of that soft sisterhood was Mistress Martha, 

On one-legged bullfinches and wheezing lapdogs 

Who lavish sympathies long run to waste, 

" Since that unhappy day " — 'twas her own phrase, 

Mysterious, unexplained — oft hinted at 

In memory's melting mood to faithful Prissey, 



86 The Birthday. 

With sighs deep fetched, and watery upturned eyes 

Glancing unutterable things, where hung, 

Enshrined in shagreen case, a miniature, 

Set round with garnets, in a true-love knot 

Wreathed at the top, the portraiture within 

Of a slim, pink-and- white young gentleman 

In bag and solitaire, and point cravat, 

With a peach -blossomed coat — "Ah, Prissey ! Prissey ! 

Good girl ! remember" — so the lady still 

Addressed her handmaiden, when forty years 

And five, full told, her girlhood had matured — 

" Men are deceivers all — put no faith in them ; 

But live and die a chaste and peaceful maid." 

With decent grief Priscilla to the grave 

Followed her monitress, and that day month 

To Ephraim (who had waited for his wife 

With patriarchal patience), nothing loath, 

Plighted her virgin troth. 

Came with the bride 
Into her husband's long-prepared home, 
In carved oak chest, and trunks with gilded nails, 
Curiously flourished, store of household stuff, 
And goodly raiment — of the latter, much 
Unfitting wear for decent humble folk 
Knowing their station, as full well did they, 
Keeping thereto with sense of self-respect, 
Insuring that of others. But Priscilla, 
A favoured handmaiden, and privileged, 
Accustomed long to copy, half unconscious, 
Her lady's speech, and habits, and attire — 
(I well remember now her puffed-out kerchief, 
Closed with a garnet pin, her black fringed mits, 
And narrow velvet collar) — thought no wrong 
On Sundays, and on suitable occasions, 



The Birthday. 87 

To come forth, awful to the cottage children, 

In rustling pomp of some grave coloured lustring, 

Sprigged muslin apron, short black satin cloak, 

A thought embrowned with age, but handsome still, 

Edged round with rabbit skin, and on her head, 

By long black pins secured to cap and cushion, 

A bonnet— Mistress Martha's second best — ( 

A velvet skimming-dish, flounced round with lace 

Darned to a double pattern. Then her shoes ! 

Black velveteen, high-heeled, with silver buckles : 

So in her glory did Priscilla shine 

On holidays and high days. Then her wits, 

In housewifery expedients rich, were taxed 

To cut, convert, turn, twist, transmogrify 

Incongruous elements to useful ends. 

Triumph of female skill ! — as by enchantment, 

Even at the waving of the magic shears, 

Sacks, petticoats, and negligees became 

Waistcoats and breeches. Shade of Mistress Martha ! 

Saw ye the desecration ? So on Sundays, 

Donning brocaded vest, and nether garment 

Quilted like wise King Jamie's, warm and rich, 

His good drab broadcloth coat, with basket buttons, 

Heired from his grandsire, making ail complete 

Of Ephraim's outward man, forth sallied he, 

Doing discredit none to her whose eye 

Glanced sidelong approbation, as they took 

Leisurely, arm in arm, the churchward way. 

No scholarship had Ephraim. A plain man, 

Plain spoken, chary of his words, was he, 

But full of reverence for Priscilla's claims 

To knowledge, learning, and superior breeding. 

Deep read was she in varied lore profound, — 

Divinity, Romance, and Pharmacy, 



88 The Birthday. 

And — so the neighbours whispered — in deep things 

Passing the Parson's wisdom. Store of books, 

The richest portion of the bridal dower, 

Were ranged in goodly order on two shelves, 

The third and topmost with choice porcelain piled, 

Surmounting an old walnut-tree bureau ; 

The Holy Bible, cased in green shaloon, 

And Book of Common Prayer, a fine black type, 

Were laid conspicuous on the central spot, 

As first in honour ; flanked on either side 

By * Taylor's Golden Grove,' ' The Pilgrim's Progress, ' 

And * Fox's Book of Martyrs.' How I loved 

To ransack those old tawny, well-thumbed leaves, 

Supping my fill of horrors ! Sermons too, 

Discourses hydra-headed, had their place, 

And ' Hervey's Meditations 'mongst the Tombs,' 

With courtly Grandison and ' Pamela,' 

All full of cuts — supreme delight to me ! 

And the true history — sweetly scented name ! — 

Of Jemmy and fair Jenny Jessamy. 

Then came a ragged row of Magazines, 

And songs, and hymn-books; * Kettlewell on Death,' 

And * Glass's Cookery.' Treatises abstruse 

On moles and warts, and virtues of all herbs, 

And ailments manifold that flesh is heir to. 

What wonder if respect akin to awe 

For her who owned and studied those grave tomes 

Impressed the simple neighbours ? For myself — 

Unblushingly I do confess it now — 

Not without tremor, half delight, half fear, 

I entered, clinging to the Nursemaid's hand, 

Through the dipt laurel porch, that small neat room, 

So nicely sanded round the clean-swept hearth, 



The Birthday. 89 

Where sat expectant — (Mistress Jane, I trow, 

Had her appointments for occult discourse 

And cup of fragrant Hyson) — the wise woman, 

With her strange primmed-up smile, the round claw 

table 
Set out before her with its precious freight 
(In Sheffield tea-tray) of old real china, 
The sugar-basin a scooped cocoa-nut 
Curiously carved all o'er and ebon-stained, 
On three small toddling silver feet, rimmed round 
With the same precious metal ; silver tongs 
Stuck for effect among the sparkling knobs, 
With two thin tea-spoons of the treasured six ; 
There on its trivet the bright kettle sang, 
Its cheek all ruddy with rich firelight glow ; 
And piping hot the buttered oven-cake 
Smoked on the fender ledge, all ready quartered. 
Inviting preparations not alone 
To black-eyed Jane : the treat had charms for me 
More irresistible ; — that buttered cake ! — 
Forbidden dainty — tea with cream and sugar ! 
True, but just finished was my nursery meal — 
Dry bread and milk and water. " What of that ? 
The precious lamb had walked a weary way, 
And sure must need refreshment. One small piece 
Of nice hot buttered cake would do her good, 
And tea, a saucerful, to wash it down." 
So urged the Dame : Jane shook her head and 

smiled — 
Conscience made faint resistance — the rich steam 
Rose fragrant to my nostrils, and — I fell. 

My treat despatched, the Maid and Matron turned 
To whispered consultation, leaving me, 



90 The Birthday. 

Right glad, to seek amusement as I would. 

No lack of that, though I had stayed for hours. — 

There was the cat and kitten — always one, 

A creature of immortal kittenhood, 

For whom, suspended by a worsted thread 

To knob of dresser drawer, a bobbing cork 

Dangled, perpetual plaything; there aloft 

Among the crockery stood a small stuffed pug, 

Natural as life, tight curled-up tail and all, 

And eyes that glared a snarl ; and there i' the sun 

A venerable one-eyed cockatoo 

With gouty legs, snored dozing in his cage — 

A sacred trust ! by dying lips consigned, 

With his life income, to Priscilla's care. 

Then there were prints and pictures hung all round — 

Prints of the Parables, and one rare piece, 

A landscape — castles, clouds, trees, men, and sheep, 

All featherwork ! Priscilla when she died 

Bequeathed it to me. Poor old harmless soul ! 

That ever half- afraid I should have shrunk, 

Scarce knowing why, from one who loved me kindly : 

But then she looked so strangely, and they said 

Such strange things of her. 

Well ! and then — and then- 
There was the ' Book of Martyrs,' and * The Pilgrim,' 
And fifty other rarities and treasures ; 
But chief — surpassing all — a cuckoo clock ! 
That crowning wonder ! miracle of art ! 
How have I stood entranced uncounted minutes, 
With held-in breath, and eyes intently fixed 
On that small magic door, that when complete 
The expiring hour— the irreversible — 
Flew open with a startling suddenness 
Which, though expected, sent the rushing blood 



The Birthday. 91 

In mantling flushes o'er my upturned face ; 

And as the bird — that more than mortal fowl ! — 

With perfect mimicry of natural tone, 

Note after note exact time's message told, 

How my heart's pulse kept time with the charmed voice ! 

And when it ceased made simultaneous pause 

As the small door clapt to, and all was still. 

Long did I meditate — yea, often dream 

By day and night, at school-time and at play, — 

Alas ! at holiest seasons, even at church 

The vision haunted me,— of that rare thing, 

And his surpassing happiness to whom 

Fate should assign its fellow. Thereupon 

Sprang up crude notions, vague incipient schemes 

Of future independence : not like those 

Fermenting in the youthful brain of her 

Maternally, on fashionable system, 

Trained up betimes i' the way that she should go 

To the one great end — a good establishment. 

Yet similar in some sort were our views 

Toward contingent power. " When I'm a woman 

I'll have," quoth I, — so far the will and when 

Tallied exactly, but our difference lay 

Touching the end to be achieved. With me, 

Not settlements, and pin-money, and spouse 

Appendant, but in unencumbered right 

Of womanhood — a house and cuckoo clock ! 

Hark ! as I hang reflective o'er my task, 

The pen fresh nibbed and full, held idly yet ; 

What sound comes clicking through the half-closed door, 

Distinct, monotonous ? — 'Tis even so ; 

Years past, the pledge, self-plighted, was redeemed ; 



92 The Birthday. 

There hangs with its companionable voice 

The cuckoo clock in this mine house. — Ay, mine ; 

But left unto me desolate. Such end 

Crowns oft Ambition's most successful aim — 

Success than disappointment more defeating ; — 

Passionate longing grasps the ripened fruit 

And finds it marred, a canker at the core : 

What shall I dare desire of earthly good 

The seeming greatest ; what in prayer implore 

Or deprecate, of that my secret soul 

In fondness and in weakness covets most 

Or deepest dreads, but with the crowning clause, 

The sanctifying — " Lord ! Thy will be done ? " 

Farther a-field we journeyed, Jane and I, 
When summer days set in, with their long, light 
Delicious evenings. Then, most happy child ! 
Most favoured ! — I was sent a frequent guest, 
Secure of welcome, to the loveliest home 
Of all the country, o'er whose quiet walls 
Brooded the twin-doves, Holiness and Peace : 
There with thine aged partner didst thou dwell, 
Pastor and master ! servant of thy Lord, 
Faithful as he, the labours of whose love 
Recorded by thy pen, embalm for aye 
The name of Gilpin heired by thee — right heir 
Of the saint's mantle. Holy Bernard's life, 
Its apostolic graces unimpaired, 
Renewed in William's, virtuous parish priest ! 

Let me live o'er again, in fond detail, 
One of those happy visits. Leave obtained, 
Methought the clock stood still. Four hours past noon, 
And not yet started on our three mile walk ! 



The Birthday. 93 

And six the vicarage tea hour -primitive, 

And I should lose that precious hour, most prized, 

When in the old man's study, at his feet, 

Or nestling close beside him, I might sit 

With eye, ear, soul intent on his mild voice, 

And face benign, and words so simply wise 

Framed for his childish hearer. " Let us go ! " 

And like a fawn I bounded on before, 

When lagging Jane came forth, and off we went. 

Sultry the hour, and hot the dusty way, 

Though here and there by leafy screen o'erarched — 

And the long broiling hill ! and that last mile 

When the small frame waxed weary ! the glib tongue 

Slackening its motion with the languid limbs. 

But joy was in my heart, howe'er suppressed 

Its outward show exuberant ; and, at length, 

Lo ! the last turning — lo ! the well-known door, 

Festooned about with garlands picturesque, 

Of trailing evergreens. Who's weary now ? 

Sounding the bell with that impatient pull 

That quickens Mistress Molly's answering steps 

To most unusual promptness. Turns the lock — 

The door uncloses — Molly's smiling face 

Welcomes unasked. One eager, forward spring, 

And farewell to the glaring world without ; 

The glaring, bustling, noisy, parch ed-up world ! 

And hail repose and verdure, turf and flowers, 

Perfume of lilies, through the leafy gloom 

White gleaming ; and the full, rich, mellow note 

Of song-thrush, hidden in the tall thick bay 

Beside the study window ! 

The old house, 
Through flickering shadows of high-arching boughs, 
Caught gleams of sunlight on its time-stained walls, 



94 The Birthday, 

And frieze of mantling vine ; and lower down, 
Trained among jasmines to the southern bow, 
Moss roses, bursting into richest bloom, 
Blushed by the open window. There she sate, 
The venerable lady, her white hair 
White as the snowy coif, upon her book 
Or needlework intent ; and near at hand 
The maiden sister friend — a lifelong guest — 
At her coarse sempstresship — another Dorcas, 
Unwearying in the work of charity. 

Oh ! kindest greeting ! as the door unclosed 
That welcomed the half-bold half-bashful guest, 
And brought me bounding on at a half word 
To meet the proffered kiss. Oh, kindest care ! 
Considerate of my long, hot, dusty walk, 
Of hat and tippet that divested me, 
And clinging gloves ; and from the glowing cheek 
And hot brow, parted back the clustering curls, 
Applying grateful coolness of clear lymph, 
Distilled from fragrant elder — sovereign wash 
For sunburnt skin and freckled ! Kindest care, 
That followed up those offices of love 
By cautionary charge to sit and rest 
" Quite still till tea time." Kindest care, I trow, 
But little relished. Restless was my rest, 
And wistful eyes, still wandering to the door, 
Revealed " the secret of my discontent," 
And told where I would be. The lady smiled, 
And shook her head, and said, — 

' ' Well ! go your ways 
And ask admittance at that certain door 
You know so well." All weariness was gone — 
Blithe as a bird, thus freed, away I flew. 



The Birthday. 95 

And in three seconds at the well-known door 

Tapped gently ; and a gentle voice within 

Asking " Who's there?" "It's me" I answered 

low, 
Grammatically clear. * ' Let me come in, " 
The gentle voice rejoined ; and in I stole, 
Bashfully silent, as the good man's smile, 
And hand extended, drew me to his chair ; 
And there all eye and ear, I stood full long, 
Still tongueless, as it seemed ; love-tempering awe 
Chaining my words up. But so kindly his, 
His aspect so benign, his winning art 
So graciously conforming ; in short time 
Awe was absorbed in love, and then unchained 
By perfect confidence, the little tongue 
Questioned and answered with as careless ease 
As might be, from irreverent boldness free. 
True love may cast out fear, but not respect, 
That fears the very shadow of offence. 

How holy was the calm of that small room ! 
How tenderly the evening light stole in, 
As 'twere in reverence of its sanctity ! 
Here and there touching with a golden gleam 
Book-shelf or picture -frame, or brightening up 
The nosegay set with daily care — love's own — 
Upon the study table. Dallying there 
Among the books and papers, and with beam 
Of softest radiance, starring like a glory 
The old man's high bald head and noble brow, 
There still I found him, busy with his pen — 
Oh pen of varied power ! found faithful ever, 
Faithful and fearless in the one great cause — 
Or some grave tome, or lighter work of taste — 



g6 The Birthday. 

His no ascetic, harsh, soul-narrowing creed — 

Or that unrivalled pencil, with few strokes, 

And sober tinting slight, that wrought effects 

Most magical — the poetry of art ! 

Lovely simplicity ! — true wisdom's grace — 

That, condescending to a simple child, 

Spread out before me hoards of graphic treasures ; 

Smiling encouragement as I expressed 

Delight or censure — for in full good faith 

I played the critic — and vouchsafing mild 

To explain or vindicate ; in seeming sport 

Instructing ever ; and on graver themes 

Winning my heart to listen, as he taught 

Things that pertain to life. 

Oh precious seed ! 
Sown early ; soon, too soon — the sower's hand, 
The immediate mortal instrument withdrawn — 
Tares of this evil world sprang thickly up 
Choking your promise. But the soil beneath — 
Nor rock nor shifting sand — retained ye still, 
God's mercy willing it, until His hand, 
Chastening as fathers chasten, cleared at last 
The encumbered surface, and the grain sprang np.- 
But hath it flourished ? — hath it yet borne fruit 
Acceptable ? Oh Father ! leave it not 
For lack of moisture yet to fall away ! 



The Legend of Santarem. 97 



THE LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 

COME listen to a monkish tale of old, 
Right Catholic, but puerile some may deem, 
Who all unworthy their high notice hold 

Aught but grave truth, or lofty learned theme ; 
Too wise for simple fancies, smiles, and tears, 
Dreams of our earliest, purest, happiest years. 

Come, listen to my legend ; for of them 
Surely thou art not : and to thee I'll tell 

How on a time in holiest Santarem 
Strange accident miraculous befell 

Two little ones, who to the sacred shrine 

Came daily to be schooled in things divine. 

Twin sisters — orphan innocents were they : 

Most pure, I ween, from all but the olden taint, 

Which only Jesu's blood can wash away : 
And holy, as the life of holiest saint, 

Was his, that good Dominican's, who fed 

His Master's lambs, with more than daily bread. 

The children's custom, while that pious man 
Performed the various duties of his state 

Within the spacious church, as sacristan, 
Was on the altar steps to sit and wait, 

Nestling together ('twas a lovely sight !) 

Like the young turtle-doves of Hebrew rite. 
G 



98 The Lege7id of Santarem. 

A small rich chapel was their sanctuary, 
While thus abiding ; — with adornment fair 

Of curious carved work, wrought cunningly, 
In all quaint patterns and devices rare : 

And over them, above the altar, smiled 

From Mary-Mother's arms, the Holy Child : 

Smiled on His infant guests, as there below, 

On the fair altar steps, those young ones spread — 

Nor aught irreverent in such act, I trow — 
Their simple morning meal of fruit and bread. 

Such feast not ill beseemed the sacred dome — 

Their Father's house is the dear children's home. 

At length it chanced, upon a certain day, 
When Frey Bernardo to the chapel came, 

Where patiently was ever wont to stay 

His infant charge, with vehement acclaim, 

Both lisping creatures forth to meet him ran, 

And each to tell the same strange tale began. 

" Father ! " they cried, as, hanging on his gown 
On either side, in each perplexed ear 

They poured their eager tidings — " He came down- 
Menino Jesu has been with us here ! — 

We asked Him to partake our fruit and bread ; 

And He came down — and sate with us — and fed. " 

" Children ! my children ! know ye what ye say?" 
Bernardo hastily replied. "But hold ! — 

Peace, Briolanja ! — rash art thou alway : 
Let Inez speak." And little Inez told, 

In her slow silvery speeeh, distinctly o'er, 

The same strange tidings he had heard before. 



The Legend of Santarem. 99 

" Blessed are ye, my children ! " with devout 
And deep humility the good man cried. 

" Ye have been highly favoured. Still to doubt 
Were gross impiety and sceptic pride. 

Ye have been highly favoured. Children dear ! 

Now your old master's loving counsel hear. 

" Return to-morrow with the morning light, 
And, as before, spread out your simple fare 

On the same table ; and again invite 
Menino Jesu to descend and share : 

And if He come, say, - Bid us, blessed Lord ! 

We and our master, to Thy heavenly board.' 

* i Forget not, children of my soul ! to plead 
For your old master : — Even for his sake 

Who fed ye faithfully : and' He will heed 
Your innocent lips ; and I shall so partake 

With His dear lambs. Beloved ! with the sun 

Return to-morrow. — Then — His will be done." 

" To-night ! to-night ! Menino Jesu saith 

We shall sup with Him, Father ! we and thee," 

Cried out both happy children in a breath, 
As the good Father entered anxiously, 

About the morrow's noon, that holy shrine, 

Now consecrate by special grace divine. 

"He bade us come alone ; but then we said 
We could not, without thee, our master dear. 

At that, He did not frown, but shook His head 
Denyingly : Then straight with many a tear 

We prayed so sore, He could not but relent, 

And so He smiled at last, and gave consent." 



i oo The Legend of Santarem. 

" Now, God be praised ! " the old man said, and fell 
In prayer upon the marble floor straightway, 

His face to earth : and so, till vesper-bell, 
Entranced in the spirit's depths he lay ; 

Then rose like one refreshed with wine, and stood 

Composed among the assembling brotherhood. 

The mass was said ; the evening chant was o'er ; 

Hushed its long echoes through the lofty dome : 
And now Bernardo knew the appointed hour 

That he had prayed for, of a truth was come. 
Alone he lingered in the solemn pile, 
Where darkness gathered fast from aisle to aisle ; 

Except that through a distant doorway streamed 
One slanting sunbeam, gliding whereupon 

Two angel spirits — so in sooth it seemed 

That loveliest vision — hand in hand came on, 

With noiseless motion. " Father ! we are here," 

Sweetly saluted the good Father's ear. 

A hand he laid on each fair sun -bright head, 
Rayed like a seraph's with effulgent light, 

And — " Be ye blest, ye blessed ones," he said, 
" Whom Jesu bids to His own board to-night. 

Lead on, ye chosen ; to the appointed place 

Lead your old master." So, with steadfast face, 

He followed where those young ones led the way, 
To that small chapel. Like a golden clue 

Streamed on before that long bright sunset ray, 
Till at the door it stopt. Then passing through, 

The master and the pupils, side by side, 

Knelt down in prayer before the Crucified. 



The Legend of Santaretn. i o i 

Tall tapers burnt before the holy shrine ; 

Chalice and paten on the altar stood, 
Spread with fair damask. Of the crimson wine 

Partaking first alone, the living food 
Bernardo next with his dear children shared — 
Young lips, but well for heavenly food prepared. 

And there we leave them. Not for us to see 
The feast made ready, that first act to crown ; 

Nor to peruse the solemn mystery 
Of the divine Menino's coming down 

To lead away the elect, expectant three, 

With Him that night at His own board to be. 

Suffice it that with Him they surely were 
That night in Paradise ; for those who came 

Next to the chapel found them as in prayer, 
Still kneeling, stiffened every lifeless frame, 

With hands and eyes upraised as when they died, 

Toward the image of the Crucified. 

That mighty miracle spread far and wide, 

And thousands came the feast of death to see ; 

And all beholders, deeply edified, 

Returned to their own homes more thoughtfully, 

Musing thereon : with one great truth imprest — 

That " to depart and be with Christ is best." 



io2 The Pauper's Deathbed. 



THE PAUPER'S DEATHBED. 

TREAD softly— bow the head- 
In reverent silence bow — 
No passing bell doth toll, 
Yet an immortal soul 

Is passing now. 

Stranger ! however great, 

With lowly reverence bow ; 
There's one in that poor shed — 
One by that paltry bed, 

Greater than thou. 

Beneath that beggar's roof, 

Lo ! Death doth keep his state : 
Enter — no crowds attend ; 
Enter — no guards defend 
This palace gate. 

That pavement damp and cold 

No smiling courtiers tread ; 
One silent woman stands 
Lifting with meagre hands 
A dying head. 

No mingling voices sound — 

An infant wail alone ; 
A sob suppressed — again 
That short deep gasp, and then 
The parting groan. 






Sonnet. 1 03 

Oh, change ! oh, wondrous change ! 

Burst are the prison bars : 
This moment there, so low, 
So agonised, and now 

Beyond the stars ! 

Oh, change ! stupendous change ! 

There lies the soulless clod ; 
The Sun eternal breaks — 
The new Immortal wakes — 

Wakes with his God ! 



SONNET.— 1818. 

AUTUMNAL leaves and flowerets ! lingering last — 
Pale sickly children of the waning year ! 

A lovelier race shall yet succeed ye here, 
When Nature, her long wintry torpor past 
O'er the brown woods and naked earth doth cast 

Her vernal mantle. From its prison cell, 

Through mould and bark, the struggling germ shall 
swell, 
Bright buds, and beauteous blossoms, following fast — 
Oh ! I was wont a deep delight to taste, 

When the first primrose reared her modest head, 
And early violet on the wintry waste, 

The renovated soul of sweetness shed ! 
And they will wake again — and I shall be, 
Mine own beloved home ! far, far from them and thee ! 



104 Conte a mon Chien. 



CONTE A MON CHIEN. 

COME, my old Dog! come hither now, 
And rest thine head upon my knee, 
And let us talk together : thou 

Hast something much at heart I see. 

Ay, let them laugh who understand 
No utterance save of human speech — 

We have a language at command 
They cannot feel, we cannot teach. 

Yes, thy dark eye informeth mine 

With sense than words more eloquent : 

Thy very ears, so long and fine, 
Are flexibly intelligent. 

Come hither, then, my Dog ! and rest 
Thy poor old head upon my knee, 

And tell me why, with looks distrest, 
Thou eyest me so reproachfully. 

Donna ? the cat ? Old fool ! is she ' 
The object of thy jealous fears ? 

Fie, Ranger ! ill becometh thee 
Such fancies at thy sober years. 

Think'st thou that I remember not 

Thy dearer claims of days " lang syne " ? 

Can " auld acquaintance be forgot," 
And love, and worth, and faith like thine ? 






Conte a mon Chien, 105 

What though I smooth her velvet fur, 
Whose mottled hues so finely blend? 

What though I coax and fondle her? 
She's but a favourite — thou my friend. 

And though thy ears, once glossy brown, 
Are faded now ; though hoary white 

With age's frost thy nose is grown, 
And dull thy hearing and thy sight ; 

And though thy once fleet limbs resign 

Their spring, then light as air-blown feather ; 

I love thee more for every sign 

That tells how long we've lived together. 

And still thine eye is quick to see, 

To know me yet far off: thine ear 
(Oh love-supplied deficiency!) 

Is keen my voice, my step to hear. 

And still thou com'st with wild misrule, 

As in past time, to welcome me : 
And yet thou think' st, old jealous fool ! 

That that dull thing can rival thee. 

Dost thou e'er hear me summon her 

To be companion of my walk ? 
Dost thou e'er hear me talk to her, 

As thou and I are wont to talk ? 

" But, mistress! on your lap she lies, 

While I am crouching at your feet : 
And I've looked on with envious eyes, 

And seen her from your fingers eat." 



106 Conte d mon Chien. 

Now, my good friend ! can thoughts arise 
So senseless in such brains as thine? 

Compare thine own with Donna's size, 
And just reflect that cats must dine. 

Look at that huge thick paw — and see, 
Thy wrist is larger round than mine : 

Would'st thou a lady's nursling be ? 

' i But, mistress ! why need puss be thine ? " 

Because she's gentle and polite, 

And small, and soft, and clean withal — 

Whilst thou, for gown of purest white, 
Good friend ! hast no respect at all. 

Thou know'st in every muddy hole 
'Tis thy delight to dive and play — 

Fresh from such sport, from head to sole, 
You splashed me o'er but yesterday; 

While puss is always clean and sweet. 

' ' Ay, mistress ! ay, small chance have I : 
Your poor old servant at your feet, 

Despised, may lay him down and die. 

" Yet I've been young, and comely too, 
And oft you've kissed my sleek brown head." 

Nay, Ranger ! if you take it so, 

I wish the cat was hanged and dead. 

There, Ranger ! there ! you've won the field : 
The foe's expelled; art thou at peace? 

Beshrew the heart that would not yield 
Indulgence e'en to love's caprice ! 






Conte a mon Chien. 107 

Have I not told thee, faithful friend ! 

That good and evil, joy and pain, 
We'll share until our journey's end ? 

That only death shall part us twain ? 

And never shall thy latter days 

Know want or suffering, wrong, distress, 

That love, in all its countless ways, 
Can remedy, relieve, redress. 

And thou shalt live out all thy life — 
No murderous hand shall lay thee low : 

Forestalling time's more tedious strife, 
With merciful, preventing blow. 

Their mercy shall not end thy " pain," 
As they are pleased brute age to call : 

No, thou shalt live, old friend ! to drain 
Life's mingled potion, dregs and all. 

And many a sweet that time defies, 
Even with the latest drops shall blend, 

And many a comfort I'll devise 
To gild thy latter days, old friend ! 

Plenteous and soft thy bed shall be, 
Heaped up in basket warm and snug, 

And thou shalt stretch luxuriously, 
Just in the centre of the rug ; 

And none shall chase thee thence, nor chide 
As now thy restless wanderings — no ; 

Scratch when thou wilt, the door flung wide 
Shall yield thee passage to and fro. 



1 08 Conte a mon Chien. 

Just here, thy basket they shall bring, 
Before the early sunbeams fly ; 

Where, after many a measured ring, 
Coiled up at last, thou lov'st to lie. 

And never shall thy poor dim eyes 
For tempting morsel ask in vain — 

Never, if I can help it, rise 

In thine old heart one jealous pain. 

Well ! art thou satisfied, old friend ? 

Are all thy foolish fancies fled ? 
" Ay, mistress ! till " I comprehend; 

Till next time puss is coaxed and fed. 

But come, we've worn this theme to tatters, 
And all my logic's thrown away ; 

So let's discourse on other matters — 
And first — I've read a tale to-day. 

Thou know'st whate'er I see, read, learn, 
Relating to thy species, friend, 

I tell thee, hoping it may turn 
To thine advantage — so attend, 

My good old Ranger ! while I tell 
A true and mournful history, 

How in past time it once befell 
A little faithful dog like thee. 

'Twas in a neighbouring land : what time 
The Reign of Terror triumphed there : 

And every horrid shape of crime 

Stalked out from murder's bloody lair : 



Conte a mon Chien. 109 

And every fair and stately town 

Became a slaughter-house and grave, 

Where fell prescription hunted down 
The good, the loyal, and the brave : 

'Twas in those dreadful times there dwelt 

In Lyons, the defiled with blood, 
A loyal family, that felt 

The earliest fury of the flood. 

Wife, children, friends, it swept away 
From wretched Valrive, one by one : 

Himself severely doomed to stay 
Till everything he loved was gone — 

A man proscribed, whom not to shun, 

Was danger, almost fate, to brave : 
So all forsook him, all save one, 

One humble, faithful, powerless slave, 

His dog, old Nina. She had been, 

When they were boys, his children's mate : 

His gallant Claude, his mild Eugene, 
Both gone before him to their fate. 

And she had followed mournfully 

Their parting steps ; and when the door 

Closed after them, it seemed as she 
Hady£# they would return no more. 

And when the dismal tidings came 

That they had perished in their bloom — 

Blighted, cut off without their fame, 
Both huddled in one bloody tomb — 



no Conte a mon Chien, 

And hearl-stmck in her first despair 

The mother sank into her grave, 
And Valrive, as he laid her there, 

Scarce wished he had the power to save; 

But gazed upon that little heap, 

Safe shelter for the weary head, 
And envied her untroubled sleep, 

And longed to share her peaceful bed : 

Then as he stood beside the grave, 
With tearless eye, and lip compressed, 

Crept to his feet his poor dumb slave, 

And moaned as if his thoughts she guessed; 

And looked up in his face, and sighed 
As if her poor old heart would break ; 

And in her fond mute language cried, 
" Oh, master! live for Nina's sake." 

They spurned her off — but ever more, 
Surmounting e'en her timid nature, 

Love brought her to the prison-door, 

And there she crouched, fond, faithful creature ! 

Watching so long, so piteously, 
That e'en the jailer — man of guilt, 

Of rugged heart — was moved to cry, 

" Poor wretch ! there enter, if thou wilt." 

And who than Nina more content, 
When she had gained that dreary cell, 

Where lay in helpless dreariment 
The master loved so lon^ and well ! 



Conte a mon Chien. 1 1 1 

And when into his arms she leapt, 

In her old fond, familiar way, 
And close into his bosom crept, 

And licked his face — a feeble ray 

Of something — not yet comfort — stole 

Upon his heart's stern misery ; 
And his lips moved, " Poor loving fool ! 

Then all have not abandoned me. " 

The hour by grudging kindness spared 

Expired too soon— the friends must part — 

And Nina from the prison fared, 

With lingering pace and heavy heart. 

Shelter, and rest, and food she found 
With one who, for the master's sake, 

Though grim suspicion stalked around, 
Dared his old servant home to take. 

Beneath that friendly roof,, each night 
She stayed, but still returning day — 

Ay, the first beam of dawning light — 
Beheld her on her anxious way 

Towards the prison, there to await 

The hour, when through that dismal door 

The keeper, half compassionate, 

Should bid her enter as before. ' # 

And well she seemed to comprehend 

The time apportioned for her stay : 
The little hour that with her friend 

She tarried then, was all her day. 



ii2 Conte a mon Chien. 

But what an age of love, and grief, 
And confidence, was crowded in it ! 

How many a long, long life is brief, 
Compared with such a heart-fraught minute ! 

Methinks, old Ranger, thou and I 
Can fancy all they thought and said — 

Believ'st thou not, of days gone by 

Their hearts communed, and of the dead ? 

Ay, on my life ! — And Valrive spoke 
(The childless father!) of his boys 

To their old playmate, and awoke 
The memory of their infant joys. 

For ever thus, when in their prime 
A parent's hopes in dust are laid, 

His heart recurs to that sweet time 

When, children, round his knees they played. 

So oft in Nina's ear was breathed 
The names of those beloved ones, 

And hers, who could not live bereaved 
Of both her children. — Many suns 

Went down upon the dreary pile 
Where Valrive lay — and evermore, 

Punctual as light's returning smile, 
Came Nina to the prison-door. 

At last the captive's summons came : 
They led him forth his doom to hear ; 

No tremor shook his thrice-nerved frame, 
Whose heart was dead to hope and fear. 



Conte a mo?i Ckien. 113 

So with calm step he moved along, 
And calmly faced the murderous crew : 

But close and closer for the throng, 
Poor Nina to her master grew. 

And she has found a resting place 

Between his knees — her old safe home — 

And she looks round in every face, 
As if to read his written doom. 

There is no mercy but above — 

The word goes forth — the fatal breath — 

Does instinct, or more powerful love, 

Tell thee, poor brute ! that word is death ? 

Howe'er informed, a child might see 

The sentence struck upon her heart, 
And that her eye's keen misery 

Said, "Master! we will never part." 

'Twas but a step, in those dread days, 

From trial to the guillotine — 
A moment — and Valrive surveys, 

With steadfast eye, the fell machine. 

He mounts the platform — takes his stand 

Before the fatal block, and kneels 
In preparation — but his hand 

A soft warm touch that moment feels. 

His eyes glance downward, and a tear — 

The last tear they shall ever shed — 
Falls as he utters, " Thou still here ! " 

Upon his faithful servant's head. 
H 



ii4 Conte d man Chien. 

Yes — she is there ! that hellish shout, 

That deadly stroke, she hears them plain, 

And from the headless trunk starts out, 
Even over her, the bloody rain. 

And she beholds where they have cast 
(Uncoffined, bleeding yet, and warm, 

His shallow grave filled up in haste 
Without a prayer) that mangled form. 

But where is all the tumult now ? 

That horrid engine, blood-imbrued, 
That corse yet quivering with the blow, 

That gazing, shouting multitude ? 

All passed away — all vanished — gone — 
Even like a vision seen in sleep ! 

And in its stead, lies all alone 
A dog beside a fresh turned heap. 

Old faithful Nina ! there lies she, 

Her cold head on the cold earth pressed, 

As it was wont so lovingly 

To lie upon her master's breast. 

And there she stayed the livelong day, 
Mute, motionless, her sad watch keeping : 

A stranger who had passed that way, 

Would have believed her dead or sleeping. 

But if a step approached the grave, 
Her eye looked up with jealous care 

Imploringly, as if to crave 

That no rude foot should trample there. 



Conte a mon Chien. 115 

That night she came not as of late 

To her old charitable home : 
The next day's sun arose and set, 

Night fell — and still she failed to come. 

Then the third day her pitying host 

Went kindly forth to seek his guest, 
And found her at her mournful post ' 

Stretched quietly, as if at rest. 

Yet she was not asleep nor dead ; 

And when her master's friend she saw, 
The poor old creature raised her head, 

And moaned, and moved one feeble paw, 

But stirred not thence — and all in vain 
He called, caressed her, would have led — 

Tried threats — then coaxing words again — 
Brought food — she turned away her head. 

So with kind violence at last 

He bore her home : with gentle care 
In her old shelter tied her fast, 

Placed food beside, and left her there. 

But ere the hour of rest, again 

He visited the captive's shed, 
And there the cord lay, gnawed in twain — 

The food untasted — she was fled. 

And, vexed, he cried, " Perverse old creature ! 

Well, let her go, I've done my best." 
But there was something in his nature, 

A feeling would not let him rest. 



1 1 6 " Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof" 

So, with the early light, once more 
Towards the burial-ground went he ; 

And there he found her as before, 
But not as then stretched quietly; 

For she had worked the long night through, 

In the strong impulse of despair, 
Down, down into the grave — and now, 

Panting and weak, still laboured there. 

But death's cold stiffening frost benumbs 
Her limbs, and clouds her heavy eye — 

And hark ! her feeble moan becomes 
A shriek of human agony. 

As if before her task was over, 
She feared to die in her despair — 

But see ! those last faint strokes uncover 
A straggling lock of thin grey hair. 

One struggle ! one convulsive start ! 

And there the face beloved lies — 
Now be at peace, thou faithful heart ! 

She licks the livid lips, and dies. 



"SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY IS THE 
EVIL THEREOF." 

OH ! by that gracious rule 
Were we but wise to steer 
On the wide sea of Thought, 
What moments, trouble-fraught, 
Were spared us here ! 



" Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof" 117 

But we, perverse and blind, 

As covetous of pain, 
Not only seek for more 
Yet hidden, but live o'er 

The past again. 

This life is called brief — 

Man on the earth but crawls 

His threescore years and ten — 

At best fourscore — and then 
The ripe fruit falls. 

Yet, betwixt birth and death, 

Were but the life of man 
By his thoughts measured, 
To what an age would spread 

That little span ! 

There are, who' re born and die, 

Eat, sleep, walk, rest between — 

Talk — act by clockwork too, 

So pass, in order due, 
Over the scene. 

With whom the past is past, 

The future, nothing yet ; 
And so, from day to day 
They breathe, till called to pay 

The last great debt. 

Their life, in truth, is brief; 

A speck — a point of time, 
Whether in good old age 
Endeth their pilgrimage, 

Or in its prime. 



1 1 8 " Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." 

But other some there are 

(I call them not more wise), 

In whom the restless mind 

Still lingereth behind, 
Or forward flies. 

With these, things pass away ; 

But past things are not dead ; 
In the heart's treasury, 
Deep-hidden, dead they lie, 

Unwithered. 

And there the soul retires, 

From the dull things that are, 
To mingle oft and long 
With the time-hallowed throng 
Of those that were. 

Then into life start out 

The scenes long vanished ; 

Then we behold again 

The forms that long have lain 
Among the dead. 

We seek their grasp of love, 

We meet their beaming eye ; 

We speak — the vision's flown, 

Dissolving with its own 
Intensity. 

Years rapidly shift on, 

Like clouds athwart the sky, 

And lo ! sad watch we keep, 

When, in perturbed sleep, 
The sick doth lie. 



" Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof? 119 

We gaze on some pale face, 

Shown by the dim watch-light ; 

Shuddering we gaze, and pray, 

And weep, and wish away 
The long, long night. 

And yet minutest things, 

That mark time's tedious tread, 

Are on the feverish brain, 

With self-protracting pain, 
Deep minuted : — 

The drops with trembling hand, 

Love-steadied, poured out — 

The draught replenished — 

The label oft re-read 

With nervous doubt — 

The watch that ticks so loud — 

The winding it for one 
Whose hand lies powerless — 
And then the fearful guess, — 

" Ere this hath run . . . ." 

The shutter half unclosed 

As the night wears away, 
Ere the last stars are set — 
Pale stars ! — that linger yet 

Till perfect day — 

The mom, so oft invoked, 

That bringeth no relief, 
From which, with sickening sight, 
We turn, as if its light 

But mocked our grief. 



120 * Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof" 

Oh, never after-dawn 

For us the east shall streak, 
But we shall see again, 
With the same thoughts as then, 
That pale daybreak ! 

The desolate awakening, 

When first we feel alone ! 

" Dread memories" are these ! — 

Yet who, for heartless ease, 
Would exchange one ? 

These are the soul's hid wealth — 
Relics embalmed with tears. 

Or, if her curious eye 

Searcheth futurity — 

The depth of years ; 

There, from the deck of youth, 
Enchanted land she sees ; 

Blue skies and sun-bright bowers 

Reflected, and tall towers, 
On glassy seas. 

But heavy clouds collect 

Over that bright blue sky ; 

And rough winds rend the trees, 

And lash those glassy seas 
To billows high ! 

And then, the last thing seen 

By that dim light may be, 

With helm and rudder lost, 

A lone wreck, tempest-tost, 
On the dark sea ! 



• Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof" 121 

Thus doth the soul extend 

Her brief existence here, 
Thus multiplieth she — 
Yea, to infinity — 

The short career. 

Presumptuous and unwise ! 

As if the present sum 
Were little of life's woe ! 
Why seeketh she to know 

Ills yet to come ? 

Look up, look up, my soul, 

To loftier mysteries ; 
Trust in His word to thee, 
Who saith, ' ' All tears shall be 

Wiped from all eyes." 

And when thou turnest back 

(Oh, what can chain thee here?), 
Seek out the isles of light 
On "memory's waste" yet bright; 
Or if too near 

To desolate plains they lie, 

All dark with guilt and tears, 

Still, still retrace the past, 

Till thou alight at last 

On life's first years. 

There not a passing cloud 

Obscures the sunny scene ; 
No blight on the young tree ; 
No thought of what may be, 

Or what hath been. 



122 Farewell to my Friends. 

There all is Hope — not hope — 

For all things are possest. 
No — bliss without alloy, 
And innocence and joy, 

In the young breast. 

And all- confiding love, 

And holy ignorance — 
Thrice blessed veil ! — soon torn 
From eyes foredoomed to mourn 
For man's offence. 

Oh, thither, weary spirit ! 

Flee from this world defiled. 
How oft, heart-sick and sore, 
I've wished I were once more 

A little child ! 



FAREWELL TO MY FRIENDS. 

OH, wear no mourning weeds for me, 
When I am laid i' the ground ! 
Oh, shed no tears for one whose sleep 
Will then be sweet and sound ! 

Only, my friends, do this for me, — 

Pluck many a pale primrose, 
And strew them on my shroud, before 

The coffin-lid they close. 



Farewell to my Friends, 123 

And lay the heart's-ease on my breast — 

Meet emblem there 'twill be — 
And gently place in my cold hand 

A sprig of rosemary. 

And by the buried bones of those 

Whom living I loved best, 
See me at last laid quietly, 

Then leave me to my rest. 

And when the church-bell tolls for me 

Its last, long, hollow knell, 
As the deep murmur dies away, 

Bid me a kind farewell. 

And, stay ! — Methinks there's something yet 

I'd fain request of thee — 
Something I'd bid ye comfort, keep, 

Or love, for love of me. 

My nurse ! — Oh, she will only wait 

Till I am fast asleep, 
Then close beside me, stealthily, 

To her own pillow creep. 

My dog ! — Poor fellow ! let him not 

Know hunger, hardship, wrong : 
But he is old and feeble too — 

He will not miss me long. 

My dwelling ! — That will pass away 

To those, when I am gone, 
Will raze the lowly edifice 

To its foundation-stone. 



I 



1 24 To a Dying Infant. 

My flowers ! — That in deep loneliness 
Have been as friends to me. 

My garden ! — That, let run to waste, 
A common field will be. 

My picture I — That's already yours — 
Resemblance true, ye say : 

Oh, true indeed ! A thing of dust, 
That vanisheth away ! 

My harp ! — But that's a fairy gift 

I can bequeath to none. 
Unearthly hands will take it back 

When the last strain is done. 

So, then, I've nothing more to ask, 

And little left to give ; 
And yet I know in your kind hearts 

My memory will live. 

And so farewell, my dear good friends ! 

And farewell, world, to thee ! 
I part with some in love — with all 

In peace and charity. 



TO A DYING INFANT. 

SLEEP, little Baby! sleep! 
Not in thy cradle bed, 
Not on thy mother's breast 
Henceforth shall be thy rest, 
But with the quiet dead. 



To a Dying Infant. 125 

Yes, with the quiet dead, 

Baby ! thy rest shall be — 
Oh ! many a weary wight, 
Weary of life and light, 

Would fain lie down with thee ! 

Flee, little tender nursling ! 

Flee to thy grassy nest — 
There the first flowers shall blow, 
The first pure flake of snow 

Shall fall upon thy breast 

Peace ! peace ! the little bosom 

Labours with shortening breath. 

Peace ! peace ! that tremulous sigh 

Speaks his departure nigh — 

Those are the damps of Death. 

I've seen thee in thy beauty, 

A thing all health and glee; 
But never then wert thou 
So beautiful, as now, 

Baby ! thou seem'st to me. 

Thine upturned eyes glazed over 

Like harebells wet with dew — 
Already veiled and hid 
By the convulsed lid, 

Their pupils darkly blue. 

Thy little mouth half open, 

The soft lip quivering, 
As if, like summer air, 
Ruffling the rose leaves, there 

Thy soul were fluttering. 



126 To a Dying Infant. 

Mount up, immortal essence ! 

Young spirit ! hence — depart ! 
And is this Death ? Dread thing ! 
If such thy visiting, 

How beautiful thou art ! 

Oh ! I could gaze for ever 
Upon that waxen face, 

So passionless ! so pure ! 

The little shrine was sure 

An angel's dwelling-place. 

Thou weepest, childless mother ! 

Ay, weep — 'twill ease thine heart ; 
He was thy first-born son — 
Thy first, thine only one; 

'Tis hard from him to part. 

'Tis hard to lay thy darling 

Deep in the damp cold earth, 

His empty crib to see, 

His silent nursery, 

Late ringing with his mirth. 

To meet again in slumber 

His small mouth's rosy kiss, 
Then — wakened with a start 
By thine own throbbing heart — 
His twining arms to miss. 

And then to lie and weep, 

And think the livelong night — 
Feeding thine own distress 
With accurate greediness — 

Of every past delight ; 



To a Dying Infant. 127 

Of all his winning ways, 

His pretty, playful smiles, 
His joy at sight of thee, 
His tricks, his mimickry, 

And all his little wiles. 

Oh ! these are recollections 

Round mothers' hearts that cling ! 

That mingle with the tears 

And smiles of after years, 
With oft awakening. 

But thou wilt then, fond mother, 

In after years look back — 
Time brings such wondrous easing — - 
With sadness not unpleasing, 

Even on this gloomy track. 

Thou'lt say, " My first-born blessing! 

It almost broke my heart, 
When thou wert forced to go ; 
And yet for thee, I know, 

'Twas better to depart. 

" God took thee in His mercy, 

A lamb untasked — untried — 
He fought the fight for thee, 
He won the victory — 

And thou art sanctified. 

" I look around, and see 

The evil ways of men, 
And oh, beloved child ! 
I'm more than reconciled 

To thy departure then. 



128 My Old Dog and I. 

" The little arms that clasped me, 
The innocent lips that prest — 
Would they have been as pure 
Till now, as when of yore 

I lulled thee on my breast ? 

' ' Now, like a dewdrop shrined 
"Within a crystal stone, 

Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove ! 

Safe with the Source of love, 
The everlasting One ! 

' l And when the hour arrives, 

From flesh that sets me free, 
Thy spirit may await 
The first at heaven's gate, 

To meet and welcome me." 



MY OLD DOG AND I. 

u TV T AY, not to-day, my good old fellow — 

1 i We can't go out to-day ; 

Look ! this long sheet must be crammed over- 
All this — with words as thick as clover, 
To go by post away ! " 

" And must it go to-day ? " — " Yes, sir ! 

Methinks you heard me say it — 
It's of great consequence — the Press 
Would wait in infinite distress 

Should anything delay it." 



My Old Dog and I. 129 

" But, Mistress ! what a morning — see — 
For winter ! " — " Well, what then ? " 
" Only methought the warm sunshine 
Would comfort these old limbs of mine." 
" Pshaw ! there I've dropt my pen, 

" And made a blot— it's all your fault, 

You teasing thing ! I wish " 

" What, mistress ? If 'twere mine to grant, 
Your heart should not know wish or want 

Deferred a minute." — " Pish! 

" Old cunning fox ! but that won't do ; 

And pray, sir ! after all, 
Why can't you by yourself stroll down, 
As you used often, to the town, 

And make a morning call ? " 

' l Because those friends of mine are gone — 

Their like won't come again — 
Who used to save the greasy platters, 
And other little savoury matters, 

For my refreshment then. 

" Besides — I hate to walk alone — 

My eyes grow very dim ; 
I'm hard of hearing, too — a fly 
Might knock me down, so weak am I 

In every trembling limb. 

* ' And now vile curs make sport of me — 

Vile creatures : but last week 
Pounced on my back an old fat hen, 
And pecked me, till I howled again 

At every spiteful tweak." 
I 



130 My Old Dog and 7. 

" But, Mister Ranger! who attacked 

Her harmless chickens, pray ? " 
" Well— if I did— 'twas all in fun- 
Mere frolic; that I throttled one. 
No living soul can say." 

"No fault of yours? — D'ye mind, old friend! 

That Goose — that Turkey, too?" 
* ' Why, ay — but then they were your cousin's, 
And he had plenty more — whole dozens ! 

I smote the fowls for you." 

" Was it for my sake, yesterday, 

You flew at the calf's throat ? " 
* * Yes ; because Lizzy fed the beast, 
Forsooth — I thought she did, at least — 
From your choice butterboat." 

" Oh, rare ! — and, when you stole the ham, 

No doubt, 'twas all pure zeal 
For my wronged interest made you do it." 
" Ah, Mistress ! sorely did I rue it, 
That sinful savoury meal ! 

" How sick I was ! — what stuff I took — 

What solemn vows did utter, 
Never to touch fish, flesh, or fowl, 

Forbidden thing " " And so you stole, 

Next time, a pound of butter. — 

" Then you're so rude ! — when people call, 

And your good leave outstay, 
You go and stick yourself before 'em 
Bolt upright — outraging decorum — 
To beg they'll go away. 



My Old Dog and I. 131 

" 'Tis true, they don't quite comprehend 

Your meaning — but / do ; 
And when they call you ' civil creature ! ' 
And praise your sweet obliging nature — 

Ranger ! — I blush for you " 

"Why, mistress! sure I've heard you say, 
1 Good heavens ! — I'm almost dead — 

Those people stayed so!' " — " Come, no sneering — 

When they were fairly out of hearing, 
No matter what I said. 

" You're such a jealous, envious thing! 

You've ousted the poor cat ; 
And now, forsooth ! if I but throw 
The guinea-fowls a crumb or so, 

You take offence at that ; 

* ' And growl, and snarl, and snap at them — 

Would kill them, if you durst. 
It really shocks me, I must own, 
To think of late your temper's grown 

So crabbed and so curst." 

1 ' Bear with me, Mistress ! — I was not 

Always so curst a creature — 
Perhaps old age, that on me gains 
So fast, with all its aches and pains, 

Has something changed my nature, 

" But not my heart. I've served you now 

These eighteen years, wellnigh — 
Borne all your humours — for you, too, 
Mine honoured Mistress, have a few — 
You'll own, right lovingly ; 



132 My Old Dog and I. 

1 ' Shared all your good and evil days — 

Much evil have we known ! — 
Loved those you loved, and mourned them too, 
And missed them long, as well as you; 
And now we're left alone. 

' * I do my best — my very best — 

To please and cheer you still; 
Though weak and weaker every hour 
Becomes your poor old servant's power 
To prove his loving will. 

" But yet a little longer, pray, 

Bear with me, Mistress mine ! 

It won't be long — and when I'm dead " 

" Thou'lt leave behind no craftier head 
Than that old pate of thine. 

" Serpent of guile! and thus it is 

You always wind about, 
And whatsoever thing I'm doing, 
Though leaving it were certain ruin, 

You're sure to get me out. 

" There! there! — I've shut the blotting-book, 

Bid Honour bring my cloak, 
She understands your bark as well 
As if I called, or rang the bell — 

Peace, peace, old fool ! you'll choke. 

" Well ! — I'm just ready — get you gone — 
But now — d'ye mind me, Ranger ! 

Don't bark at everything we meet, 

And make a riot in the street, 
And get yourself in danger. 



Ranger's Grave. 133 

* * And don't attack the baker's dog — 

Nor snap and snarl at Beau — 
Nor hunt the cats, nor rouse again 
The wrath of your old friend the Hen " 

* * Trust me for that — No, no ! 

" Hang her, old toad ! — I'm no match now 

For that audacious creature ; 
I'd snap her head off, if I could — 
Old Hens are pretty picking, stewed — 

Do, Mistress! — buy and eat her." 



H 



RANGER'S GRAVE. 

March 1825. 

E'S dead and gone ! — he's dead and gone ! 

And the lime-tree branches wave, 
And the daisy blows, 
And the green grass grows 
Upon his grave. 



He's dead and gone ! — he's dead and gone ! 
And he sleeps by the flowering lime, 
Where he loved to lie, 
When the sun was high, 
In summer time. 

We've laid him there, for I could not bear 
His poor old bones to hide 



134 Ranger's Grave. 

In some dark hole, 
Where rat and mole 
And blindworms bide. 

We've laid him there, where the blessed air 
Disports with the lovely light, 
And raineth showers 
Of those sweet flowers 
So silver white ; 

Where the blackbird sings, and the wild-bee's wings 
Make music all day long, 
And the cricket at night — 
A dusky sprite ! — 
Takes up the song. 

He loved to lie where his wakeful eye 
Could keep me still in sight, 
Whence a word or a sign, 
Or a look of mine, 

Brought him like light. 

Nor word, nor sign, nor look of mine, 
From under the lime-tree bough, 
With bark and bound, 
And frolic round, 
Shall bring him now. 

But he taketh his rest, where he loved best 
In the days of his life to be, 
And that place will not 
Be a common spot 
Of earth to me. 



The Mariner's Hymn. 135 



THE MARINER'S HYMN. 

LAUNCH thy bark, Mariner! 
Christian, God speed thee ! 
Let loose the* rudder-bands — 

Good angels lead thee ! 
Set thy sails warily, 

Tempests will come ; 
Steer thy course steadily, 
Christian, steer home ! 

Look to the weather-bow, 

Breakers are round thee ; 
Let fall the plummet now, 

Shallows may ground thee. 
Reef in the foresail, there ! 

Hold the helm fast ! 
So : — let the vessel wear — 

There swept the blast. 

* ' What of the night, watchman ? 

What of the night ? " 
" Cloudy — all quiet — 

No land yet— all's right ! " 
Be wakeful, be vigilant — 

Danger may be 
At an hour when all seemeth 

Securest to thee. 

How ! gains the leak so fast ? 

Clear out the hold — 
Hoist up thy merchandise, 

Heave out thy gold ; — 



136 Sonnet. 

There — let the ingots go — 
Now the ship rights ; 

Hurrah ! the harbour's near — 
Lo, the red lights ! 

Slacken not sail yet 

At inlet or island ; 
Straight for the beacon steer, 

Straight for the high land ; 
Crowd all thy canvass on, 

Cut through the foam — 
Christian ! cast anchor now — 

Heaven is thy home ! 



SONNET, 

WRITTEN ON READING TASSO'S LIFE. 

REST, weary spirit, from thy labours past — 
Thy doubts, thy wrongs, thy painful wanderings o'er, 
Through troubled seas, thy bark has reached at last, 

The quiet haven of a friendly shore. 
Yes — " after death " — around thy pallid brow 

They wreathed the laurel, long, too long denied, 
For which, in all the ambitious ardent glow 

Of conscious worth, thy once proud spirit sighed. 
But when the mortal scene was closing fast 

Around thee, Tasso ! on that proferred crown 
What cold, contemptuous glances didst thou cast ! 

Earth could no longer chain the spirit down, 
That, fixing on a heavenly crown its trust, 
Bequeathed the earthly to its mouldering dust. 



The Broken Bridge, 137 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 

IT was a lovely autumn morn, 
So indistinctly bright, 
So many-hued, so misty, clear, 
So blent the glittering atmosphere, 
A web of opal light ! 

The morning mist, from the hill-top, 

Sailed off — a silvery flake — 
But still in the under vale it lay, 
Where the trees peered out like islands grey, 
Seen dimly, at the dawn of day, 

On a waveless pearly lake. 

And again, when we reached the woody rise 
That Boldre church doth crown, 

The filmy shroud was wafted by, 

And, rejoicing in his victory, 

The dazzling sun looked down. 

We reached the church, a two-mile walk, 

Just as the bell begun ; 
Only the clerk was stationed there, 
And one old man with silver hair, 

Who warmed him in the sun. 

A gravestone for his seat — one hand 

On his old staff leant he ; 
The other fondly dallied 
With the bright curls of a young head 

That nestled on his knee. 



138 The Broken Bridge. 

The child looked up in the old man's face, 

Looked up and laughed the while — 
Methought 'twas a beautiful sight to see 
The reflected light of its innocent glee — 
Like a sunbeam on a withered tree — 
In the old man's quiet smile. 

That simple group well harmonised 

With the surrounding scene — 
The old grey church, with its shadows deep, 
Where the dead seemed hushed in sounder sleep ; 
And all beyond, where the sun shone bright, 
Touching the tombstones with golden light, 

And the graves with emerald green. 

And a redbreast from the elms hard by 

His joyous matins sung; 
That music wild contrasted well 
With the measured sound of the old church-bell, 

In its low square tower that swung. 

I looked, and listened, and listened still, 

But word spake never a one; 
And I started like one awakened 
From a trance, when my young companion said, 

" Let's walk till the bell has done." 

So we turned away by the shady path 

That winds down the pleasant hill — 
Leaving the churchyard to the right 
High up, it brought us soon in sight 
Of the clear stream, so splarkling bright, 
That turns old Hayward mill. \ 



The Broken Bridge, 139 

A lovely scene ! but not therefore 

Young Edmund's choice, I doubt ; 

No, rather that with barbed snare 

For sport he oft inveigled there 
The perch and speckled trout. 

Stopt was the busy mill-wheel now, 

Snareless the rippling brook, 
And up the finny people leapt, 
As if they knew that danger slept — 
And Edmund ! he had wellnigh wept 

For lack of line and hook. 

" Look, what a fish! the same, I'll swear, 

That I hooked yesterday — 
He's a foot long from head to tail — 
The fellow tugged like any whale, 
And broke my line — it's very true, 
Though you laugh, miss ! you always do 

At everything I say." 

c * Nay, gentle coz ! I did but smile — 

But — was he a foot long ? " 
" Ay, more, a foot and half — near two — 
There, there, there's no convincing^//, 
One might as well to an old shoe 

Go whistle an old song." 

" Gramercy, coz ! I only asked, 

In admiration strong." 
" Ay, but you look at one so queer — 
Oh ! that I had my tackle here, 
You should soon see — well, never fear, 

I'll have him yet ere long." 



140 The Broken Bridge. 

' • Ay, doubtless — but, dear Edmund ! now 
Be murderous thoughts far hence ; 

This is a day of peace and rest, 

And should diffuse in every breast 
Its holy influence." 

Such desultory chat we held, 

Still idly sauntering on 
Towards the old crazy bridge, that led 
Across the stream by the mill-head — 

" Heyday ! " said I, " 'tis gone ! " 

And gone it was, but planks and piles 

Lay there, a fresh-brought load, 
And, till a better bridge was made, 
Flat stones across the brook were laid, 
So one might pass dryshod. 

One with firm foot and steady eye, 
Dryshod might pass the brook — 

But now, upon the further side, 

A woman and a child we spied, 

And those slippery stones the woman eyed 
With vexed and angry look. 

And the child stood there — a pretty boy, 

Some seven years old looked he, 
Limber and lithe as a little fawn, 
And I marvelled much that he sprang not on 
With a boy's activity. 

But his head hung down like a dew-bent flower, 
And he stood there helplessly ; 



The Broken Bridge. 141 

And the woman — an old ill-favoured crone !~ 
Scowled at him, and said, in a sharp cross tone, 
" You're always a plague to me ! " 

" What ails you, my little man ? " said I ; 

" Such a light free thing as you 
Should bound away, like a nimble deer, 
From stone to stone, and be over here 

Before one could well count two." 

The child looked up — to my dying day 

That look will haunt my mind. 
The woman looked too, and she tuned her throat, 
As she answered me, to a softer note, 

And says she, "The poor thing's blind. 

" His father, who's dead, was my sister's son; 

Last week his mother died too. 
He's but a weakly thing, you see, 
Yet the parish has put him upon me, 

Who am but ill to do. 

" And his mother made him more helpless still t 

Than else he might have been ; 
For she nursed him up like a little lamb, 
That in winter time has lost its dam ; — 

Such love was never seen ! 

" To be sure he was her only one, 

A helpless thing, you see ; 
So she toiled and toiled to get him bread, 
And to keep him neat, 'twas her pride, she said — 
Well, 'tis a hard thing, now she's dead, 

To have him thrown on me. 



142 The Broken Bridge, 

" And now we shall be too late for church, 

For he can't get over, not he ! 
I thought the old bridge did well enough," 
But they're always at some altering stuff, 

Hindering poor folks like we." 

I looked about, but from my side 

Edmund was gone already, 
And, with the child claspt carefully, 
Across the stream back bounded he 

With firm foot, light and steady. 

" And the woman," said I, " won't you help her too? 

Look, there she waits the while. " 
"Hang her, old cat ! if I do," quoth he, 
" To souse her into the midst 'twill be " — 

For my life I could not but smile. 

So we left her to cross as best she might. 

And I turned to the sightless child ; 
His old white hat was wound about 
With a rusty crape, and fair curls waved out 

On a brow divinely mild. 

And the tears still swam in his large blue eyes, 

And hung on his sickly cheek — 
Those eyes with their clouded vacancy, 
That looked towards, but not at me, 
Yet spoke to my heart more touchingly 

Than the brightest could ever speak. 

I took his little hand in mine — 
'Twas a delicate small hand — 



The Broken Bridge. 143 

And the poor thing soon crept close to me, 
With a timid familiarity, 

No heart could e'er withstand. 

By this time the woman had hobbled up. 

" Ah, Goody! what, safe ashore? " 
Quoth Edmund — " I knew without help from me 
You'd paddle across." Askance looked she, 
But spake not a word ; so in company 

We moved on to church all four. 

But I felt the child's hand, still held in mine, 
With a shrinking dread compressed ; 

" Do you love to go to church? " I said. 

" Yes ; " and he hung down his little head, 
" But I love the churchyard best." 

" The churchyard, my pretty boy ! And why? 

Come tell me why, and how ? " 
"Because — because — " and the poor thing 
Sobbed out the words half whispering — 

" 'Cause mammy is there now." 

Feelings too deep for utterance 

Shrilled me a moment's space ; 
At last— " My little friend," said I, 
" She's gone to live with God on high, 

In heaven, His dwelling-place. 

11 And if you're good, and pray to Him, 

And tell the truth alway, 
And bear all hardships patiently, 
You'll go there too." — " But when ? " said he ; 

" Shall I go there to-day? " 



144 Sonnet. 

" Nay, you must wait till God is pleased 

To call you to His rest." 
" When will that be ? " he asked again. 
" Perhaps not yet, my child." — " Oh, then ! 

I love the churchyard best." 

And to the churchyard we were come, 

And close to the church door — 
And the little hand I held in mine, 
Still held, loath was I to resign ; 
And from that hour the face so mild, 
And the soft voice of that orphan child, 
Have haunted me evermore. 



SONNET. 

WHAT if the tale was true, as some believe, 
That Tasso's love to Leonora gave? 
Oh ! happy Leonora, to receive 

Such fame-conferring vows from such a slave ! 
Darling of many hearts ! Of short-lived fame 

The favoured minion ! born in courts to shine ! 
Yet but for him, for his illustrious name, 

What deathless annals had recorded thine ? 
These are thy triumphs, Genius ! flames that burn 

With brightening glory through the mists of time — 
When earth-born spirits to the earth return, 

Thine mounting from thine ashes soars sublime ; 
And where they moulder, Contemplation's eye 
With awful reverence dwells, when kings forgotten lie. 



The Ladye's Bry dalle. 145 



THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 

i /^OME hither, come hither, my little foot-page, 

V And beare to my gaye ladye 

This ringe of the good red gowde, and be sure 
Rede well what she tellethe to thee. 

" And take tent, little page, if my ladye's cheeke 
Be with watchinge and weepinge pale ; 

If her locks are unkempt, and her bonnie eyes redde; 
And come backe and telle me thye tale. 

" And marke, little page, when thou showest the ringe, 

If she snatchethe it hastelye, 
If the red blude mount up her slendere throate 

To her forehedde of ivorye. 

" And take good heede, if, for gladnesse or griefe, 

So chaungethe mye ladye's cheere ; 
You shalle know bye her eyes, if their lichte laugh oute, 

Through the miste of a startinge teare, 

" Like the summer sunne through a morninge cloude, 

There needeth no furthere tokenne, 
That mye ladye brighte to her owne true knighte 

Hath keepit her faithe unbrokenne. 

" Now ride, little page, for the sunne peeres oute 
Owre the rimme of the eastern heavenne, 

And backe thou must bee with thy tidinges to mee 
Ere the shadowe falles far at evenne." 
K 



146 The Lady is Bry dalle. 

Awaye and awaye ! and he's farre on his waye, 

The little foot-page alreddye ; 
For he's backed on his lorde's own gallante graye, 

That steede so swift and steddye. 

But the knighte stands there like a charmedde manne, 

Watchinge with eare and eye 
The clatteringe speede of his noble steede, 

That swifte as the windes doth flye. 

But the windes and the lichtninges are loitererres alle 

To the glaunce of a luver's mynde ; 
And Sir Alwynne, I trow, had thocht Bonnybelle slowe, 

Had her fleetnesse outstrippit the wynde. 

Beseemed to him that the sunne once more 

Had stayedde his course that daye; 
Never sicke manne longed for morninge licht, 

As Sir Alwynne for eveninge graye. 

But the longeste daye must ende at laste, 

And the brighteste sunne must sette : 
Where stayde Sir Alwynne at peepe of dawne, 

There at even he stayethe him yette. 

And he spyethe at last " Not soe, not soe; 

'Tis a small graye cloude, Sir Knighte, 
That risethe up like a courser's hedde 

On that borderre of gowden licht." 

" Bot harke ! bot harke ! for I heare it nowe ; 

'Tis the comynge of Bonnybelle !" 
" Not soe, Sir Knighte! from that rockye height, 

'Twas a clatteringe stone that felle." 



The Ladye's Br y dalle. 147 

" That slothfull e boye ! — but I'll thinke no more 
Of him and that lagginge jade to-daye." 

" Righte, righte, Sir Knighte ! " — "Nay, now by this 
lichte, 
Here comethe my page and my gallante graye ! " 

4 ' Howe nowe, little page ! ere thou lichteste downe, 

Speake but one worde out hastylye ; 
Little page, hast thou seen mye ladye luve ? 

Hathe mye ladye keepit her faith with me ? " 

" I've seene thye ladye luve, Sir Knighte, 

And welle hathe she keepit her faith e with thee.' 

" Lichte downe, lichte downe, mye trustye page; 
A berrye browne barbe shall thy guerdon be. 

" Telle on, telle on ! Was mye ladye's cheeke 

Pale as the lilye, or rosye redde ? 
Did she put the ringe on her finger smalle ? 

And what was the very firste worde she sedde ? " 

" Pale was thye ladye's cheeke, Sir Knighte; 

Blent with no streake of the rosye redde. 
I put the ringe on her finger smalle : 

But there is no voice amongste the dedde." 



There are torches hurryinge to and froe 

In Raeburne Towerre to-nighte, 
And the chapelle dothe glowe with lampes alsoe, 

As if for a brydalle ryte. 



148 The Lady is Bry dalle. 

But where is the bryde ? and the brydegroome where ? 

And where is the holye prieste ? 
And where are the guestes that shoulde biddenne be, 

To partake of the marriage feast ? 

The bryde from her chamberre descendethe slowe, 
And the brydegroome her hande hath ta'en, 

And the guestes are mette, and the holy prieste 
Precedethe the marriage traine. 

The bryde is the fayre Maude Winstanlye, 

And Dethe her sterne brydegroome ; 
And her father followes his onlye childe 

To her mothere's yawninge tombe. 

An agedde manne ! and a wofulle manne ! 

And a heavye moane makes he : 
" Mye childe ! mye childe ! mine onlye childe ! 

Would God I had dyedde for thee ! " 

An agedde manne, those white haires telle, 

And that bendedde backe and knee ; 
Yette a stalwart knighte at Tewkesburye fighte 

Was Sir Archibalde Winstanlye. 

'Tis a movinge thinge to see the teares 

Wrunge oute frae an agedde eye, 
Seldome and slowe, like the scantye droppes 

Of a fountaine that's neere a-drye. 

'Tis a sorrye sighte to see graye haires 
Brocht downe to the grave with sorrowe ! 

Youth lukes through the cloude of the presente daye 
For a goldenne gleame to-morrowe. 






The La dye's Bry dalle. 149 

Bot the palsyede hedde, and the feeble knees, 

Berefte of earthlye staye ! . . . . 
God help thee nowe, olde Winstanlye ! 

Gude Christians for thee praye ! — 

Bot manye a voice in that burialle traine 

Breathes gloomilye aparte, 
" Thou hadst not been childelesse nowe, olde manne, 

Bot for thine owne harde hearte ! " 



And manye a mayde, who strewethe floweres 

Afore the Ladye's biere, 
Weepes oute, * { Thou hadst not dyede, sweete Maude, 

If Alwynne had beene heere ! " 



What solemne chaunte ascendeth slowe ? 

What voices peale the straine ? 
The Monkes of St Switholm's Abbaye neare 

Have mette the funeralle traine. 

They hold their landes, full many a roode, 
From the Knightes of Raeburne Towerre ; 

And everre when Dethe doth claime his preye 
From within that lordlye bowerre, 

Then come the holye Fatheris forthe, 

The shrowdedde corse to meete, 
And see it laide in hallowde grave, 

With requiem sadde and sweete. 



ISO The Ladye's Bry dalle. 

And no we they turne, and leade the waye 

To that laste home so nigh, 
Where alle the race of Winstanlye 

In dust and darknesse lye. 

The holye altarre blazethe brighte 
With waxenne taperres high ; 

Elsewhere, in dimme and doubtfulle lycht 
Doth alle the chapelle lye. 

Huge undefinedde shadowes falle 
From pillare and from tombe ; 

And manye a grimme old monumente 
Lookes ghastelye through the gloome. 

And manye a rustye shirt of maile 
The eye maye scantlye trace ; 

And crestedde helmette, blacke and barred, 
That grinnes with sterne grimace. 

Bannerre and scutcheon from the walles 
Wave in the cald nighte aire ; 

Gleames oute their gorgeous heraldrye 
In the enteringe torches' glare. 

For nowe the mourninge companye, 
Beneathe that archedde doore, 

Beare in the lovelye, lifelesse claye, 
Shall passe thereoute no more. 

And up the soundinge aisle ye stille 
Their solemne chaunte may heare ; 

Tille 'neath that blazonned catafalque 
They gentlye reste the biere : 



The Ladye's Bry dalle. 151 

Then ceasethe everye sounde of life ; 

So deepe that awfulle hushe, 
Ye heare from yon freshe opennedde vaulte 

The hollowe deathe-winde rushe. 



Backe from the biere the mournerres alle 

Retire a little space ; 
Alle bot that olde bereavedde manne, 

Who takethe there his place 

Beside the dedde : — but none may see 
The workinges of his mynde ; 

So lowe upon that sunkenne breste 
Is that graye hedde declinede. 



The masse is saide, they raise the dedde, 

The palle is flunge aside ; 
And soone that cofhnned lovelyenesse 

The darksome pit shalle hide. 

It gapeth close at hande. — Deep downe 

Ye maye the cofiinnes see, 
By the^lampe's dull glare, freshe kindledde there, 

Of many a Winstanlye. 

And the gildedde nails on one looke brighte, 

And the velvette of cramoisie ; 
She hathe not laine there a calenderre yeere, 

The last Dame Winstanlye. 



152 The Lady is Bry dalle. 

"There's roome for thee heere, oh daughter deere! " 

Methinkes I heare her saye — 
" There's roome for thee, Maude Winstanlye; 

Come downe — make no delay e! " 

And, from the vaulte, two grimlye armes 
Upraised, demaunde the dedde ! . . . 

Hark ! hark ! 'tis the tramp of a rushinge steede ! 
'Tis the clanke of an armedde tredde ! 

There's an armedde hedde at the chapelle doore ; 

And in armoure all bedighte 
Jn coal-black Steele, from hedde to heele, 

In steppes an armedde Knighte ! 

And upp the aisle, with heavye tredde, 

Alone advauncethe he ; 
To barre his waye, dothe none essaye 

Of the funeralle companye. 

And never a voice amongste them all 

Dothe aske who he mote be ; 
Nor why his armedde steppe disturbes 

That sadde solemnitye. 

Yette manye an eye, with fixedde stare, 

Dothe sternelye on him frown ; 
Bot none may trace the straunger's face — 

He weares his vizorre downe. 

He speakes no worde, but waves his hande, 

And straighte theye alle obeye ; 
And everye soule that standethe there, 

Falles backe to make him waye. 



The Ladye's Bry dalle. 153 

He passethe on — no hande dothe stirre ; 

His steppe the onlye sounde ; 
He passethe on, and signes them sette 

The cofhnne on the grounde. 

A momente gazinge down thereonne, 

With foldedde armes dothe staye ; 
Then stoopinge, with one mightye wrench 

He teares the lidde awaye. 

Then risethe a confusedde sounde, 

And some half forwarde starte, 
And murmurre " sacriledge ! " And some 

Beare hastilye aparte 

The agedde Knighte, at that straunge sighte 
Whose consciousnesse hathe fledde — 

Bot signe nor sounde disturbethe him 
Who gazethe on the dedde. 

And seemethe sune, as that faire face 

Dothe alle exposedde lye, 
As if its holye calme o'erspredde 

The frowninge faces bye. 

And nowe beside the Virginne corse 
Downe kneeles the straunger Knighte, 

And backe his vizorrede helme he throwes, 
Bot not in openne sight ; 

For to the pale, colde clammye face, 

His owne he stoopethe lowe, 
And kissethe firste the bludelesse cheeke, 

And then the marble browe. 



154 The Lady J s Bry dalle. 

Then, to the dedde lippes gluede, so long 

The livinge lippes do staye, 
As if in that sad silente kisse 

The soule had paste awaye. 

Bot suddenne, from that mortal trance, 

As with a desperate straine, 
Up ! up ! he springes — his armoure ringes — 

His vizorre's downe againe. 

With many a flouerre, her weepinge maydes 
The Layde's shroude have dressed ; 

And one white rose is in the faulde 
That veiles her whiterre breste. 

One gowdenne ringlette on her browe, 
Escapedde forth, dothe straye ; 

So on a wreathe of driftedde snowe 
The wintrye sunbeames playe. 

The mailedde hande hath ta'en the rose 
From offe that breste so fayre ; 

The faulchion's edge, from that pale hedde, 
Hath shorne the gowden haire. 

One heavye sigh !■ — the firste and last — 
One deepe and stifledde groane ! 

A few longe strides, a clange of hoofes, 
And the armedde straunger's gone ! 



To My Birdie. 155 



TO MY BIRDIE. 

HERE'S only you an' me, Birdie! here's only you an' 
me! 
An' there you sit, you humdrum fowl, 
Sae mute an' mopish as an owl — 

Sour companie ! 

Sing me a little sang, Birdie ! lilt up a little lay ! 
When folks are here, fu' fain are ye 
To stun them with yere minstrelsie 

The lee-lang day ; 

An' now we're only twa, Birdie ! an' now we're only 
twa; 
'Twere sure but kind an' cozie, Birdie ! 
To charm, wi' yere wee hurdy-gurdie, 

Dull care awa'. 

Ye ken, when folks are paired, Birdie ! ye ken, when folks 
are paired, 
Life's fair, an' foul, and freakish weather, 
An' light an' lumbrin' loads, thegither 

Maun a' be shared ; 

An' shared wi' lovin' hearts, Birdie ! wi' lovin' hearts an' 
free; 
Fu' fashious loads may weel be borne, 
An' roughest roads to velvet turn, 

Trod cheerfully. 



156 To My Birdie. 

We've a' our cares an' crosses, Birdie ! we've a' our cares 
an' crosses ; 
But then to sulk an' sit sae glum — 
Hout, tout ! — what guid o' that can come 

To mend ane's losses ? 

Ye' re dipt in wiry fence, Birdie ! ye're dipt in wiry fence ; 
An' aiblins I, gin I mote gang 
Upo' a wish, wad be or lang 

Wi' frien's far hence : 

But what's a wish, ye ken, Birdie ! but what's a wish, ye 
ken? 
Nae cantrip naig, like hers of Fife, 
Wha darnit wi' the auld weird wife, 

Flood, fell, an' fen. 

'Tis true, ye're furnished fair, Birdie! 'tis true, ye're fur- 
nished fair, 
Wi' a braw pair o' bonnie wings, 
Wad lift ye whar yon laverock sings 

High up i' th' air ; 

But then that wire's sae Strang, Birdie ! but then that wire's 
sae Strang ! 
An' I mysel', sae seemin' free, 
Nae wings have I to waften me 

Whar fain I'd gang. 

An' say we'd baith our wills, Birdie ! we'd each our wilfu' 

way : 
Whar laverocks hover, falcons fly ; 
An' snares an' pitfa's aften lie 

Whar wishes stray. 



To My Old Canary. 157 

An* ae thing weel I wot, Birdie ! an' ae thing weel I wot — 
There's Ane abune the highest sphere, 
Wha cares for a' His creatures here, 

Marks every lot : 

Wha guards the crowned king, Birdie ! wha guards the 
crowned king, 
An' taketh heed for sic as me — 
Sae little worth — an' e'en for thee, 

Puir witless thing ! 

Sae now, let's baith cheer up, Birdie! an' sin' we're only 
twa — 
Aff han' — let's ilk ane do our best, 
To ding that crabbit, cankered pest, 

Dull care awa' ! 






TO MY OLD CANARY. 

" I ^IS many a long year now, Birdie ! 

JL Ay, sure — some seven years good, 
Since I rhymed to you one day, 
On a certain morn of May, 

In an idle, sing-song mood. 

I remember it all as well, Birdie, 

The hour, and the place, and the mood, 

As if time, since slipt away, 

Were little more than a day, 
And yet is it seven years good ! 



158 To My Old Canary. 

A great sum of life struck off, Birdie ! 

And I feel it has told with me : 
But you're looking as young and bright 
As you did in that May morn's light, . 

And you're singing more merrily. 

For then you were moping and mute, Birdie, 
Though I begged, and you seemed to hear me, 

That you'd tune up that little throat, 

But you never vouchsafed a note, 
Not a single note to cheer me. 

And your silence seemed very unkind ; 

For in sooth, as I well remember, 
Though Earth wore her best array 
That beautiful month of May, 

My heart was as sad as December. 

For then first I felt myself lonely, 
Quite, quite left alone upon earth ; 

Hid for ever the last loving face, 

And even the old dog's place 
Forsaken beside the hearth. 

And I, though a sickly creature, 

Might still live lingering on, 
Like a trampled passion-flower, 
Torn down from its bonny bower, 

When all I had clung to was gone. 

I sat at my pleasant window, 

Where the myrtle and rose peeped in, 

And without such a smile serene 

Pervaded the quiet scene, 

That sorrow seemed almost a sin, 



To My Old Canary. 159 

And I tried to rejoice with Nature, 

For my heart was not sullen, though sad; 

But the cloud of my spirit lay 

On all beautiful things that day, 

And I could not — I could not be glad. 

So I bent again to the task 

That had dropt unperceived on my knee, 
And my needle began to ply, 
Busily, busily, 

As fast as fast could be. 

Stitch after stitch I set, 

Mechanically true; 
But the seeming gaze intent, 
On that dull labour bent, 

Had little with thought to do. 

And soon from the careless finger 

A crimson drop was drawn; 
And next, from a source less near, 
Another, as crystal clear, 

Dropt on the snowy lawn. 

And my sight grew dim, and again 

My hands fell listlessly, 
And the sound of my very breath, 
In that stillness as deep as death, 

Was a distress to me. 

' ' Oh ! for a sound of life 

From a single living thing," 
I passionately cried — 
And thou wert by my side, 

Birdie ! and didst not sing. 



160 To My Old Canary. 

Then 'twas that rhymed remonstrance- 

So famous ! — I spake to thee, 
Not surely less improving, 
Than it was deeply moving, 
And its effect on me 

Was wondrously relieving ; 

For as my verse flowed on, 
Sad thoughts it did beguile, 
And for a little while 

My loneliness was gone. 

And from that very moment, 

Birdie, I do opine, 
There has been more in thee 
Than common eyes can see, 

Or any eyes but mine. 

'Tis not because thy music 
Is ceaseless now all day — 

As many a deafened guest 

Can ruefully attest — 
That thus of thee I say : 

But that when night is round us, 

And every guest is gone, 
And by the taper's beam, 
Or fire-light's ruddier gleam, 
I'm sitting all alone, 

Forth from thy gilded prison 

Soft silvery tones 'gin swell, 
More sweet and tender far 
Than tenderest warblings are 
Of love-lorn Philomel ; 



To My Old Canary. i6t 

And thou the while fast perched, 

As if asleep — so still ! 
That tremulous undertone, 
Liquidly gurgling on, 

Like a tiny, tinkling rill. 

And when I watch thee closer, 

Small creature ! with surprise, 
Half doubtful, if from thee 
That marvellous melody, 

I meet thy watchful eyes, 

Those bright black eyes, so strangely, 

Methinks, that answer mine ; 
It surely seems to me, 
Some spirit thou must be, 

Pent in that plumy shrine ; 

But whether spirit, fairy, 

Or mortal fowl thou art, 
I thank thee, pretty creature. 
My comforter, my teacher, 

I thank thee from my heart ! 

My comforter I call thee — 

For many a heavy hour, 
Hath lightened of its sadness, 
Nay, half attuned to gladness, 

Thy small pipe's witching power. 

And often-time while listening, 

I've caught the infectious tone, 
And murmured fitful words, 
And struck a few faint chords, 

Wild music of my own, 
L 



1 62 To My Old Canary. 

Till to the realms of Cloudland, 

Freed Fancy winged her flight, 
Far, far beneath her leaving 
This world of sin and grieving : 
So, Birdie, with good right 

My Comforter I call thee — 

My Teacher thou shouldst be ; 
For sure some lesson holy, 
Of wisdom meek and lowly, 
May reason learn from thee. 

Debarred from choicest blessings, 

Inferior good to prize, 
Thou hymn'st the light of heaven, 
Though not to thee 'tis given 
To soar into the skies. 

Content thou art, and thankful, 
For some poor gathered weed, 

Though nature's chartered right 

In gardens of delight 

Gave thee to sport and feed. 

• ; Thou renderest good for evil : 
For sad captivity 
Sweet music — all thy treasure. 
Oh, Birdie ! when I measure 
Philosophy with thee, 

I feel how much I'm wanting, 

Though more is given to me — 
That thou, poor soulless creature, 
Mayst truly be the teacher 
Of proud humanity. 



Isabel Southey. 163 



TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY. 

,r T^IS ever thus — 'tis ever thus, when Hope hath built a 

JL bower 

Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless 

flower, 
To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust, 
A whirlwind from the desert comes, and "all is in the dust." 

'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, that when the poor heart 

clings, 
With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings, 
That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast, 
Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast. 

'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss, 
With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as 

this ; 
One moment round about us their "angel* lightnings" 

play, 
Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all hath past 

away. 

'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with sounds too sweet for 

earth — 
Seraphic sounds, that float away, borne heavenward, in 

their birth : 
The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute, 
The sweet bells all are silent, and hushed the lovely lute. 

* "II lampeggiar del angelico riso." 



164 Sonnet. 

'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with all that's best below ; 
The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go — 
The bird that sings the sweetest, the pine that crowns the 

rock, 
The glory of the garden, the flower of the flock. 

'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair, 
Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt more earthly natures 

bear; 
A little while they dwell with us, blest ministers of love, 
Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their 

home above. 



SONNET. 

TRAVELLER of Life ! what plant of virtues rare 
Seeketh thy curious eye ? 'Mongst earth's excess, 

Will none but the exotic, Happiness, 
Content thine eager longing? Fruitless care ! 

It groweth not beneath our clouded skies. 

But when amongst the groves of Paradise 
The soft winds wanton, haply they may bear, 

From thence to earth, some vagrant flower or leaf, 

Some fluttering petal, exquisite as brief 
Its odorous beauty ! — Oh, if to thy share 

It fall, one blossom on thy path to find — 

Quick ! snatch it to thine heart, ere the rough wind 
Despoil its freshness. It will fade e'en there; 
Thou canst not quite exclude this cold world's nipping 
air. 



There is a Tongue in every Leaf. 165 



THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. 

THERE is a tongue in every leaf, 
A voice in every rill ! — 
A voice that speaketh everywhere, 
In flood and fire, through earth and air — 
A tongue that's never still ! 

'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused 

Through everything we see, 
That with our spirits communeth 
Of things mysterious — Life and Death — 

Time and Eternity. 

I see him in the blazing sun, 

And in the thunder- cloud — 
I hear him in the mighty roar, 
That rusheth through the forest hoar 

When winds are piping loud. 

I see him, hear him everywhere, 

In all things — Darkness, Light, 
Silence, and Sound — but, most of all, 
When slumber's dusky curtains fall 
At the dead hour of night. 

I /eel Him in the silent dews 

By grateful earth betrayed — 
I /eel Him in the gentle showers, 
The soft south wind, the breath of flowers, 

The sunshine, and the shade. 



1 66 There is a Tongue in every Leaf. 

And yet, ungrateful that I am ! 

I've turned in sullen mood 
From all these things — whereof He said, 
When the great work was finished, 

That they were " Very good ! " 

My sadness on the fairest things 
Fell like unwholesome dew — 
The darkness that encompassed me, 
The gloom I felt so palpably, 
Mine own dark spirit threw. 

Yet He was patient, slow to wrath, 

Though every day provoked 
By selfish pining discontent, 
Acceptance cold, or negligent, 
And promises revoked. 

And still the same rich feast was spread 

For my insensate heart. 
Not always so — I woke again 
To join creation's rapturous strain — 

" O Lord ! how good Thou art! " 

The clouds drew up, the shadows fled, 

The glorious sun broke out — 
And Love, and Hope, and Gratitude 
Dispelled that miserable mood 
Of darkness and of doubt. 



On the Near Prospect of Leaving Home, 167 



ON THE NEAR PROSPECT OF LEAVING 
HOME.— 1818. 

FAREWELL ! farewell, beloved home ! 
Haven of rest ! a long farewell ; 
Where'er my weary footsteps roam, 
With thee shall faithful memory dwell. 

They tell me other bowers will rise 

As fair in fancy's future view — 
They little think what tender ties, 

Dear home ! attach my heart to you. 

Their happy childhood has not played, 
Like mine, beneath thy sheltering roof; 

Thou hast not fostered, in thy shade, 
Their after-years of happier youth. 

They cannot know, they have not proved 
The sympathies that make thee dear ; 

They have not here possessed and loved — 
They have not lost and sorrowed here. 

In all around, they cannot see 

Relics of hopes, and joys o'ercast — 

They have not learnt to live, like me, 
On recollections of the past ; 

To watch, as misers watch their gold, 

Tree, shrub, or flower — frail, precious trust !— 

Planted and reared in days of old, 

By hands now mouldering in the dust ; 



1 68 Autumn Flowers. 

To sanctify peculiar places, 
Associated in memory's glass, 

With circumstances, times, and faces, 
That like a dream before me pass. 

These are the feelings — this the band, 
Dear home ! that knits my heart to thee ; 

No heart but mine can understand 
How strong that secret sympathy. 

Therefore, of scenes more fair than thee, 
They kindly speak to soothe mine ear ; 

Yes — fairer other scenes may be, 
But never any half so dear. 



AUTUMN FLOWERS. 

THOSE few pale Autumn flowers! 
How beautiful they are ! 
Than all that went before, 
Than all the Summer store, 
How lovelier far ! 

And why ? — they are the last — 

The last !— the last !— the last !— 
Oh, by that little word, 
How many thoughts are stirred ! 
That sister of the past ! 



Autumn Flowers. 169 

Pale flowers ! — pale perishing flowers ! 

Ye re types of precious things ; 
Types of those bitter moments 
That flit, like life's enjoyments, 

On rapid, rapid wings. 

Last hours with parting dear ones — 

That time the fastest spends — 
Last tears, in silence shed, 
Last words, half uttered, 

Last looks of dying friends ! 

Who but would fain compress 

A life into a day; 
The last day spent with one, 
Who, e'er the morrow's sun, 

Must leave us, and for aye ? • 

Oh, precious, precious moments ! 

Pale flowers ! ye're types of those — 
The saddest, sweetest, dearest ! 
Because, like those, the nearest 

To an eternal close. 

Pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers ! 

I woo your gentle breath ; 
I leave the summer rose 
For younger, blither brows ; 

Tell me of change and death ! 



170 To Death, 



TO DEATH. 

COME not in terrors clad, to claim 
An unresisting prey : 
Come like an evening shadow, Death ! 

So stealthily, so silently ! 
And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath ; 

Then willingly — oh ! willingly, 
With thee I'll go away. 

What need to clutch with iron grasp 
What gentlest touch may take ? 

What need, with aspect dark, to scare, 
So awfully, so terribly, 

The weary soul would hardly care, 
Called quietly, called tenderly, 

From thy dread power to break ? 

'Tis not as when thou markest out 
The young, the blest, the gay, 

The loved, the loving — they who dream 
So happily, so hopefully ; 

Then harsh thy kindest call may seem, 
And shrinkingly, reluctantly, 

The summoned may obey. 

But I have drunk enough of life — 

The cup assigned to me 
Dashed with a little sweet at best, 

So scantily, so scantily — 



Once upon a Time. 1 7 1 

To know full well that all the rest, 

More bitterly, more bitterly, 
Drugged to the last will be. 

And I may live to pain some heart 

That kindly cares for me — 
To pain, but not to bless. O Death ! 

Come quietly — come lovingly, 
And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath ; 

Then willingly — oh ! willingly, 
With thee I'll go away. 



ONCE UPON A TIME. 

SUNNY locks of brightest hue 
Once around my temples grew ;- 
Laugh not, lady, for 'tis true ; 
Laugh not, lady, for with thee 
Time may deal despitefully ; * 
Time, if long he lead thee here, 
May subdue that mirthful cheer ; 
Round those laughing lips and eyes 
Time may write sad histories ; 
Deep indent that even brow, 
Change those locks, so sunny now, 
To as dark and dull a shade, 
As on mine his touch hath laid. 
Lady ! yes, these locks of mine 
Clustered once with golden shine 



172 Once upon a Time, 

Temples, neck, and shoulders round, 
Richly gushing if unbound, 
If from band and bodkin free, 
Wellnigh downward to the knee. 
Some there were took fond delight 
Sporting with those tresses bright, 
To enring with living gold 
Fingers now beneath the mould, 
Woe is me ! grown icy cold. 

One dear hand hath smoothed them too 
Since they lost the sunny hue, 
Since their bright abundance fell 
Under the destroying spell — 
One dear hand ! the tenderest 
Ever nurse child rocked to rest, 
Ever wiped away its tears, 
Even those of later years. 
From a cheek untimely hollow, 
Bitter drops that still may follow, 
Where's the hand will wipe away? 
Hers I kissed, ah ! dismal day, 
Pale as on the shroud it lay. 
Then, methought, youth's latest gleam 
Departed from me like a dream. 
Still, though lost their sunny tone, 
Glossy brown those tresses shone, 
Here and there, in wave and ring, 
Golden threads still glittering ; 
And, from band and bodkin free, 
Still they flowed luxuriantly. 

Careful days, and wakeful nights, 
Early trenched on young delights. 



Once upon a Time. 173 

Then of ills an endless train, 
Wasting languor, wearying pain, 
Feverish thought that racks the brain, 
Crowding all on summer's prime, 
Made me old before my time. 
So a dull, unlovely hue 
O'er the sunny tresses grew, 
Thinned their rich abundance too. 
Not a thread of golden light 
In the sunshine glancing bright. 

Now again a shining streak 
'Gins the dusky cloud to break ; 
Here and there a glittering thread 
Lights the ringlets, dark and dead — 
Glittering light ! but pale and cold — 
Glittering thread ! but not of gold. 

Silent warning ! silvery streak, 
Not unheeded dost thou speak. 
Not with feelings light and vain, 
Not with fond regretful pain, 
Look I on the token sent 
To declare the day far spent. 
Dark and troubled hath it been ; 
Sore misused ! and yet between 
Gracious gleams of peace and grace 
Shining from a better place. 

Brighten — brighten, blessed light ! 
Fast approach the shades of night ; 
When they quite enclose me round, 
May my lamp be burning found ! 



174 Thafs what we are. 



THAT'S WHAT WE ARE. 

CAREFUL and troubled about many things — 
Alas ! that it should be so with us still, 
As in the days of Martha — I went forth, 
Harassed and heartsick, with hot, aching brow, 
Thought-fevered — haply to escape myself. 

Beauteous that bright May morning — all about, 
Sweet influences of earth, and air, and sky, 
Harmoniously accordant. I alone — 
The troubled spirit that had driven me forth — 
In dissonance with that fair frame of things, 
So blissfully serene. God had not yet 
Let fall the weight of chastening, that makes dumb 
The murmuring lip and stills the rebel heart, 
Ending all earthly interests ; and I called, 

heaven ! that incomplete experience — Grief. 
It would not do. The momentary sense 

Of soft refreshing coolness passed away, 

Back came the troublous thoughts, and all in vain 

1 strove with the tormentors : all in vain 
Applied me with forced interest to peruse 
Fair Nature's outspread volume : all in vain 
Looked up admiring at the dappled clouds 
And depths cerulean. Even as I gazed, 

The film, the earthly film, obscured my vision, 
And in a lower region, sore perplexed, 
Again I wandered, and again shook off, 
With vext impatience, the besetting cares, 
And set me straight to gather, as I walked, 
A field- flower nosegay. Plentiful the choice ; 



Thafs what we are. 175 

And in few moments, of all hues I held 
A glowing handful. In few moments more 
Where were they ? Dropping as I went along 
Unheeded on my path ; and I was gone — 
Wandering far off, in maze of thought perplext. 

Despairingly I sought the social scene — 
Sound — motion — action — interchange of words, 
Scarcely of mind — rare privilege ! 

We talked— 
Oh ! how we talked — discussed and solved all questions — 
Religion, morals, manners, polities, 
Physics and metaphysics, books and authors, 
Fashion and dress, our neighbours and ourselves ; 
And ever as the senseless changes rang, 
And I helped ring them, in my secret soul 
Grew weariness, disgust, and self-contempt; 
And, more disturbed in spirit, I resumed, 
More cynically sad, my homeward way. 

It led me through the Churchyard, and methought 
There entering, as I let the iron gate 
Swing to behind me, that the change was good, — 
The unquiet living for the quiet dead. 
And at that moment, from the old church- tower 
A knell resounded — " Man to his long home 
Drew near" — ''The mourners went about the streets ;" 
And there, few paces onward, to the right, 
Close by the pathway, lay an open grave — 
Not of the humbler sort, shaped newly out, 
Narrow and deep, in the dark mould ; when filled 
To be roofed over by the living sod, 
And left for all adornment (and so best) 
To Nature's reverential hand. 



176 Thafs what we are. 

The tomb 
Made ready there for a new habitant 
Was that of ah old family : I knew it — 
A very ancient altar-tomb, where Time 
With his rough fretwork mocked the sculptor's art, 
Feebly elaborate ; heraldic shield 
And mortuary emblems half effaced ; 
Deep sunken at one end, of many names 
Graven with suitable inscription, each 
Upon the shelving slab and sides, scarce now 
Might any but an antiquarian eye 
Make out a letter. Five-and-fifty years 
The door of that dark dwelling had shut in 
The last admitted sleeper. She, 'twas said, 
Died of a broken heart — a widowed mother 
Following her only child, by violent death 
Cut off untimely — and the whisper went, 
By his own hand. The tomb was ancient then, 
When they two were interred; and they the first 
For whom, within the memory of man, 
It had been opened ; and their names filled up — 
With sharp-cut newness mocking the old stone — 
The last remaining space. And so it seemed 
The gathering was complete ; the appointed number 
Laid in the sleeping chamber, and sealed up 
Inviolate, till the great reckoning day. 
The few remaining of the name dispersed, 
The family fortunes dwindled, till at last 
They sank into decay, and out of sight, 
And out of memory ; till an aged man, 
Passed by some parish very far away, 
To die in ours — his legal settlement — 
Claimed kindred with the long-forgotten race, 
Its sole survivor, and in right thereof — 



Thafs what we are. 177 

Of that affinity — to moulder with them 
In the old family grave. 

" A natural wish," 
Said the authorities ; and " sure enough 
He was of the old stock — the last descendant ; 
And it would cost no more to bury him 
Under the old cracked tombstone, with its scutcheons, 
Than in the common ground." So graciously 
The boon was granted, and he died content. 
And now the pauper's funeral had set forth, 
And the bell tolled — not many strokes nor long — 
Pauper's allowance ; — he was coming home. 
But while the train was yet a good way off — 
The workhouse burial train — I stopt to look 
Upon the scene before me ; and methought — 
Oh ! that some gifted painter could behold 
And give duration to that living picture, 
So rich in moral and pictorial beauty, 
If seen arightly by the spiritual eye, 
As with the bodily organ ! 

The old tomb, 
With its quaint tracery, gilded here and there 
With sunlight glancing through the o'erarching lime, 
Far flinging its cool shadow, flickering light ; 
Our grey -haired sexton, with his hard grey face — 
A living tombstone — resting on his mattock 
By the low portal ; and just over right, 
His back against the lime-tree, his thin hands 
Locked in each other, hanging down before him 
As with their own dead weight, a tall slim youth, 
With hollow hectic cheek, and pale parched lip, 
And labouring breath, and eye upon the ground 
Fast rooted, as if taking measurement 
Betime for his own grave. I stopt a moment, 
M • 



178 Thafs what we are. 

Contemplating those thinkers — Youth and Age 

Marked for the sickle, as it seemed, the unripe 

To be first gathered. Stepping forward, then, 

Down to the house of death, with vague expectance 

I sent a curious, not unshrinking gaze. 

There lay the burning head and broken heart 

Long, long at rest ; and many a thing beside 

That had been life — warm, sentient, busy life ! — 

Had hungered, thirsted, laughed, wept, hoped, and feared, 

Hated and loved, enjoyed and agonised. 

Where of all this was all I looked to see ? — 

The mass of crumbling coffins, some belike 

Flattened and shapeless ? Even in this damp vault 

With more completeness could the old Destroyer 

Have done his darkling work ? Yet lo ! I looked 

Into a small square chamber, swept and clean, 

Except that on one side, against the wall, 

Lay a few fragments of dark rotten wood, 

And a small heap of fine, rich, reddish earth 

Was piled up in a corner. 

"How is this?" 
In stupid wonderment I asked myself, 
And dull of apprehension. Turning then 
To the old Sexton — " Tell me, friend," I said, 
" Here should be many coffins — where are they ? " 

He raised his eyes to mine with a strange look 
And strangely meaning smile ; and I repeated — 
For not a word he spoke — my witless question. 

Then with a deep distinctness he made answer, 
Distinct and slow, looking to where I pointed, 
Thence full into my face, and what he said 
Thrilled through my very heart — " That's what we are! " 



Thafs what we are. 179 

So I was answered. Sermons upon Death 
I had heard many : Lectures by the score 
Upon Life's vanities ; but never words 
Of mortal preacher to my heart struck home 
With such convicting sense and suddenness, 
As the plain-spoken homily, so brief, 
Of that unlettered man. 

" That's what we are ! " 
Repeating after him, I murmured low, 
In meek acknowledgment, and bowed the head 
Profoundly reverential. A deep calm 
Came over me, and to the inward eye 
Vivid perception. Set against each other 
I saw weighed out the things of Time and Sense, 
And of Eternity ; and oh ! how light 
Looked in that truthful hour the earthly scale ! 
And oh ! what strength, when from the penal doom 
Nature recoiled, in His remembered words — 
" I am the Resurrection and the Life ! " 

And other words of that Divinest Speaker — 
Words to all mourners of all time addressed — 
Seemed spoken to me as I went along 
In prayerful thought, slow musing on my way — 
" Believe in me. Let not your hearts be troubled" 
And sure I. could have promised in that hour, 
But that I knew myself how fallible, 
That never more should cross or care of life 
Disquiet or distress me. So I came, 
Chastened in spirit, to my home again, 
Composed and comforted, and crossed the threshold 
That day " a wiser, not a sadder," woman. 



180 Departure. 



DEPARTURE. 

WHEN I go away from my own dear home, 
Let it be at the fall of the leaf, 
When the soulless things that to me have been 
Like spirits peopling the silent scene, 
Are fading, as if in grief; 

When the strains of the summer birds have ceased, 

Or in far-off regions swell — 
Oh ! let me not hear the blithesome song 
Of that blackbird I fed all winter long, 

When I'm taking my last farewell. 

The robin-redbreast will come, I know, 

That morn to the window-pane, 
To look, as wont, for the scattered feast, 
With his large dark eyes :— and that day, at least, 

He shall not look in vain. 

Let the autumn wind, when I go away, 

Make moan with its long-drawn breath : 

" Fare thee well, sad one ! " 'twill seem to say ; 

' * Yet a little while, and a little way, 
And thy feet shall rest in death." 

And here and there an evergreen leaf 

I'll gather from shrub and tree, 
To take with me wherever I go ; 
And when this poor head in dust lies low, 

To be laid in the coffin with me. 



The Child's Unbelief, 181 

I go not like one in the strength of youth, 
Who hopes, though the passing cloud 
May pour down its icy hail amain, 
That summer and sunshine may break out again 
The brighter from sorrow's shroud. 

An April morn and a clouded day 

My portion of life hath been : 
And darker and darker the evening sky 
Stretches before me gloomily, 

To the verge of the closing scene. 

Gloomily darkens the evening sky : 

I shall go with a heavy heart. 
Yet, would I change, if the power were mine, 
One tittle decreed by the will Divine ? 

On, no ! not a thousandth part. 

In my blindness I've wished — -in my feebleness wept, 

With a weak, weak woman's wail ; 
But humbling my heart and its hopes in the dust — 
All its hopes that are earthly — I've anchored my trust 

On the strength that can never fail. 



THE CHILD'S UNBELIEF. 

OME hither, my little child, to me ! 
Come hither and hearken now. 
My poor, poor child ! is this a day 
For thee to dance, and sport, and play, 
Like blossom on the bough ? 



"C 



1 82 The Child's Unbelief. 

' ' Fair blossom ! where's the fostering bough ? 

And where's the parent tree ? 
Stem, root, and branch — all, all laid low — 
Almost at once — at one fell blow : 

Dear child ! cling close to me, 

" My sister's child ! for thou shalt grow 

Into my very heart. 
But hush that ringing laugh — to me 
The silver sound is agony : 

Come, hearken here apart. 

" And fold thy little hands in mine, 

Thus standing at my knee ; 
And look up in my face, and say, 
Dost thou remember what to-day 

Weeping I told to thee ? 

' ' Alas ! my tears are raining fast 

Upon thine orphan head ; 

And thy sweet eyes are glistening now 

Harry ! at last believest thou 

That thy poor mother's dead ?" 

* ' No, no ! my mother is not dead — 

She carCt be dead, you know. 
Oh, aunt ! I saw my father die, 
All white and cold I saw him lie — 
My mother don't look so. 

" She cried when I was sent away, 

And I cried very much ; 
And she was pale, and hung her head, 
But all the while her lips were red, 

And soft and warm to touch — 



The Child's Unbelief. 183 

" Not like my father's, hard and cold ; 

And then she said, beside, 
She'd come to England soon, you know." 
* ' But, Harry, that was months ago — 

She sickened since and died. 

" And the sad news is come to-day — 

Told in this letter. See, 
'Tis edged and sealed with black." " Oh, dear ! 
Give me that pretty seal. Look here ! 

I'll keep it carefully, 

" With all these others, in my box — 

They're all for her. Don't cry ; 
I'll learn my lessons every day, 
That I may have them all to say 

When she comes by-and-by." 

" Boy, boy ! thy talk will break my heart. 

O Nature ! can it be 
That thou in his art silent so ? 
Yet what, poor infant ! shouldst thou know 

Of life's great mystery ? 

" Of time and space — of chance and change — 

• Of sin, decay, and death — 
What canst thou know, thou sinless one ! 
Thou yet unstained, unbreathed upon 
By this world's tainting breath ? 

* ' A sunbeam all thy little life, 

Thy very being bliss — 
Glad creature ! who would waken thee 
To sense of sin and misery 

From such a dream as this?" 



j 84 The Greenwood Shrift. 



THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. 

OUTSTRETCHED beneath the leafy shade 
Of Windsor forest's deepest glade 
A dying woman lay ; 
Three little children round her stood, 
And there went up from the greenwood 
A woeful wail that day. 

" Oh, mother! " was the mingled cry, 
" Oh, mother ! mother ! do not die, 

And leave us all alone." 
" My blessed babes ! " she strove to say, 
But the faint accents died away 

In a low sobbing moan. 

And then life struggled hard with death, 
And fast and strong she drew her breath, 

And up she raised her head ; 
And peering through the deep wood maze, 
With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze, 

" Will he not come?" she said. 

Just then, the parting boughs between, 
A little maid's light form was seen, 

All breathless with her speed ; 
And following close a man came on — 
A portly man to look upon — 

Who led a panting steed. 



The Greenwood Shrift. 185 

" Mother ! " the little maiden cried, 
Or e'er she reached the woman's side, 
Or kissed her clay-cold cheek, 

* * I have not idled in the town, 

But long went wandering up and down 
The Minister to seek. 

1 * They told me here, they told me there, 
I think they mocked me everywhere; 

And when I found his home, 
And begged him, on my bended knee, 
To bring his book and come with me, 

Mother ! he would not come. 

" I told him how you dying lay, 
And could not go in peace away 

Without the Minister : 
I begged him for dear Christ His sake ; 
But oh ! — my heart was fit to break — 

Mother ! he would not stir. 

" So, though my tears were blinding me, " 
I ran back fast as fast could be, 

To come again to you : 
When here, close by, this Squire I met, 
Who asked so mild what made me fret ; 

And when I told him true, 

" * I will go with you, child,' he said, 

* God sends me to this dying bed.' 

Mother! he's here — hard by." 
While thus the little maiden spoke, 
The man, his back against an oak, 

Looked on with glistening eye. 



1 86 The Greenwood Shrift. 

The bridle on his neck flung free, 

With quivering flank and trembling knee, 

Pressed close his bonny bay ; 
A statelier man, a statelier steed, 
Paced never greensward glade, I rede, 

Than those stood there the day. 

So, while the little maiden spoke, 
The man, his back against an oak, 

Looked on with glistening eye 
And folded arms, and in his look 
Something that, like a sermon-book, 

Said— "All is vanity!" 

But when the dying woman's face 
Turned toward him with a wistful gaze, 

He stept to where she lay, 
And kneeling down, bent over her, 
Saying — " I am a Minister ; 

My sister, let us pray." 

And well, withouten book or stole 
(God's words were printed on his soul), 

Into the dying ear 
He poured as 'twere an angel's strain 
The things that unto life pertain, 

And death's dark shadows clear. 

He spoke of sinners' lost estate, 
In Christ renewed, regenerate ; 

Of God's most blest decree, 
That not a single soul shall die 
Who turns repentant, with the cry, 

" Be merciful to me ! " 



The Greenwood Shrift. 187 

Then, as the spirit ebbed away, 

He raised his hands and eyes to pray 

That peaceful it might pass ; 

And then the orphans' wail alone 

Was heard, as they knelt, every one, 

Close round on the green grass. 

Such was the sight their wondering eyes 
Beheld, in heart-struck mute surprise, 

Who reined their coursers back, 
Just as they found the long astray, 
Who, in the heat of chase that day, 

Had wandered from the track. 

Back each man reined his pawing steed, 
And lighted down, as if agreed, 

In silence at his side ; 
And there, uncovered all, they stood : 
It was a wholesome sight and good, 

That day, for mortal pride. 

For of the noblest of the land 

Was that deep-hushed, bare-headed band ; 

And, central in the ring, 
By that dead pauper on the ground, 
Her ragged orphans clinging round, 

Knelt their anointed King ! 



1 88 The Warning. 



THE WARNING. 

THERE'S bloom upon the lady's cheek, 
There's brightness in her eye : 
Who says the sentence is gone forth 
That that fair thing must die ? — 

Must die before the flowering lime, 

Out yonder, sheds its leaf: 
Can this thing be, O human flower ! 

Thy blossoming so brief ? 

Nay, nay : 'tis but a passing cloud ; 

Thou dost but droop awhile : 
There's life (long years), and love, and joy 

(Whole ages), in that smile- — 

In the gay call that to thy knee 

Brings quick that loving child, 
Who looks up in those laughing eyes, 

With his large eyes so mild. 

Yet thou art doomed — art dying. All 

The coming hour foresee, 
But, in love's cowardice, withhold 

The warning word from thee. 

God help thee, and be merciful ! 

His strength is with the weak ; 
Through babes and sucklings the Most High 

Hath oft vouchsafed to speak, 



The Warning. 189 

And speaketh now : — " O Mother, dear ! " 

Whispers the little child — 
And there is trouble in his eyes, 

Those large blue eyes so mild — 

" O Mother, dear! they say that soon, 

When here I seek for thee, 
I shall not find thee ; nor out there 

Under the old oak tree ; 

" Nor upstairs in the nursery; 

Nor anywhere, they say. 
Where wilt thou go to, Mother, dear ? 

Oh, do not go away ! " 

There was deep silence — a long hush — 

And then the child's low sob ; 
Her quivering eyelids close ; one hand 

Holds down the heart's quick throb, 

And the lips move, though sound is none : 

That inward voice is prayer; 
And hark! — " Thy will, O Lord! be done." 

And tears are trickling there, 

Down that fair cheek, on that young head, 

And round her neck he clings ; 
And child and mother murmur out 

Unutterable things : 

He half unconscious — she heart-struck 

With sudden, solemn truth, 
That numbered are her days on earth, 

Her shroud prepared in youth ; 



19° The Three Friends. 

That all in life her heart holds dear 

God calls her to resign. 
She hears — feels — trembles — but looks up, 

And sighs — " Thy will be mine ! " 



THE THREE FRIENDS. 

STANZAS ACCOMPANYING A PICTURE. 

WE three were loving friends !— a lowly life 
Of humble peace, obscure content, we led : 
Stealing away, withouten noise or strife, 
Like some small streamlet in its mossy bed. 

• 
We had our joys in common — wisdom, wit, 

And learned lore, had little share in those : 

Thus, by the winter fire we used to sit, 

Or in the summer evening's warm repose. 

At our sweet bowery window, opening down 
To the green grass, beneath the flowering lime, 

When the deep curfew from the distant town 
Came mellowed, like the voice of olden time ; 

And our grave neighbour, from the barn hard by, 
The great grey owl, sailed out on soundless wings, 

And the pale stars, like beams of memory, 

Brightened as twilight veiled all earthly things. 

'Twas then we used to sit, as pictured thus — 
My pillow, as in childhood, still the same, 



My Garden. 191 

Those venerable knees, and close to us, 
Old Ranger, pressing oft his jealous claim. 

And then I loved to feel that gentle hand 
Laid like a blessing on my head — to hear 

The "auld-warld" stories, ever at command, 
By all but her forgotten many a year ; 

And then we talked together of the days 

We both remembered — and of those who slept — 

And the old dog looked up with wistful gaze, 
As if he, too, that faithful record kept. 

We three were loving friends ! — now one is gone, 
And one — poor feeble thing! — declineth fast; 

And well I wot, the days are drawing on 
Will find me here, the lonely and the last ; 

But not to tarry long ; and when I go, 

The stranger's hand will have dominion here, 

And lay thy walls, my peaceful dwelling ! low, 
As my last lodging in the churchyard near, 

1824. 



MY GARDEN. 

I LOVE my Garden ! — dearly love 
That little spot of ground ! 
There's not, methinks — though I may err 
In partial pride — a pleasanter, 
In all the country round ! 



192 My Garden. 

The smooth green turf winds gently there, 

With no ungraceful bend, 
Round many a bed and many a border, 
Where, gaily grouped in sweet disorder, 

Young Flora's darlings blend. 

Spring ! Summer ! Autumn ! — of all three, 

Whose reign is loveliest there ? 
Oh ! is not she who paints the ground, 
When its frost fetters are unbound, 
The fairest of the fair ? 

I gaze upon her violet beds, 

Laburnums, golden-tressed ; 
Her flower-spiked almond — breathe perfume 
From lilac and syringa bloom, 

And cry, " I love Spring best ! " 

But Summer comes, with all her pomp 

Of fragrance, beauty, bliss! — 
And from amidst her bower of roses, 
I sigh, as purple evening closes, 
" What season equals this?" 

That pageant passeth by. Comes next 
Brown Autumn in her turn ; — 

Oh ! not unwelcome cometh she ; 

The parched earth luxuriously 
Drinks from her dewy urn. 

And she hath flowers, and fragrance too, 

Peculiarly her own ; 
Asters of every hue — perfume, 
Spiced rich with clematis and broom, 

And mignonette late blown. 



My Garden. 193 

Then if some lingering rose I spy 

Reclining languidly, 
Or the bright laurel's glossy green, — 
Dear Autumn ! my whole heart, I ween, 

Leaps up for love of thee ! 

Oh, yes ! — I love my garden well, 

And find employment there ; — 
Employment sweet ; for many an hour, 
In tending every shrub and flower 

With still unwearied care. 

I prop the weakly — prune the rude — 

Scatter the various seeds — 
Clear out intruders, — yet of those 
Oft sparing, what the florist knows 

To be but gaudy weeds. 

But when my task — my pleasant task ! — 

Is ended for the day — 
Sprinkled o'er every sun-bowed flower 
The artificial evening shower, 

Then oftentimes I stray — 

(Inherent is the love of change 

In human hearts) — far, far 
Beyond the garden-gate; — the bound 
That clips my little Eden round, 

Chance for my leading star ; 

Through hollow lanes or coppice paths, 

By hill or hawthorn fence, 
O'er thymy commons, clover fields, 
Where every step I take reveals 

Some charm of sight or sense. 

N 



[94 My Garden. 

The winding path brings suddenly 

A rustic bridge in sight ; 
Beneath it, gushing brightly out, 
The rivulet, where speckled trout 

Leap in the circling light. 

Pale water-lilies float thereon, 
The Naiads' loveliest wreath ! 

The adders' tongues dip down to drink ; 

The flag peers high above the brink, 
From her long slender sheath. 

There, on the greensward, an old oak 

Stands singly. One, I trow, 
Whose mighty shadow spread as wide, 
When they were in their prime, who died 
A hundred years ago. 

A single ewe, with her twin lambs, 

Stands the grey trunk beside ; 
Others lie clustering in the shade, 
Or, down the windings of the glade, 
Are scattered far and wide. 

Two mossy thorns, o'er yonder stile, 

A bowery archway rise; — 
Oh, what a flood of fragrance thence 
Breathes out ! — Behind that hazel fence 

A flowering bean-field lies. 

The shadowy path winds gently on, 

That hazel fence beneath ; 
The wild- rose, and the woodbine there 
Shoot up, festooning high in air 

Their oft-entangled wreath. 



My Garden. 195 

The path winds on — on either side 

Walled in by hedges high ; 
Their boughs so thickly arching over, 
That scarce one speck you can discover — 

One speck of the blue sky ! 

A lovely gloom ! It pieaseth me 

And lonely Philomel. 
Hark ! the enchantress sings ! — that strain 
Dies with a tremulous fall ! — again — 

Oh, what a gushing swell ! 

Darker and darker still the road, 

Scarce lit by twilight glances ; — 

Darker and darker still But, see ! 

Yonder, on that young aspen-tree, 

A darting sunbeam dances. 

Another gems the bank below 

With emeralds ! Into one 

They blend — unite one emerald sea ! 

And last, in all his majesty, 

Breaks through the setting sun ! 

And I am breathless, motionless, 

Mute with delight and love ! 
My very being seems to blend 
With all around me — to ascend 

To the great Source above. 

I feel I am a spark struck out 

From an eternal flame ; 
A part of the stupendous whole, 
His work, who breathed a deathless soul 

Into this mortal frame. 



196 My Garden. 

And they shall perish — all these things — 

Darkness shall quench this ball : 
Death-throes this solid earth shall rive, 
Yet I — frail thing of dust ! — survive 
The final wreck of all. 

* ' Wake up my glory ! lute and harp ! " 

Be vocal every chord ; 
Lo ! all His works in concert sing, 
" Praise, praise to the Eternal King/' 

The Universal Lord ! 

Oh, powerless will ! oh, languid voice ! 

Weak words ! imperfect lays ! 
Yet, could His works alone inspire 
The feelings that attune my lyre 

To these faint notes of praise ! 

Not to the charms of tasteful art 

That I am cold or dull ; 
I gaze on all the graceful scene — 
The clustering flowers, the velvet green— 

And cry, " How beautiful ! " 

But when to Nature's book I turn, 

The page she spreads abroad ; 
Tears only to mine eyes that steal, 
Bear witness that I see and feel 
The mighty hand of God ! 






The Young Grey Head. 197 



THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 

GRIEF hath been known to turn the young head 
grey — 
To silver over in a single day 
The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime 
Scarcely o'erpast : as in the fearful time 
Of Gallia's madness, that discrowned head 
Serene, that on the accursed altar bled, 
Miscalled of Liberty. Oh, martyred Queen ! 
What must the sufferings of that night have been ? — 
That one — that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'er 
With Time's untimely snow ! But now no more, 
Lovely, august, unhappy one, of thee — 
I have to tell an humbler history ; 
A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth, 
If any, will be sad and simple truth. 

" Mother," quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame — 
So oft our peasant's use his wife to name, 
" Father " and " Master " to himself applied, 
As life's grave duties matronise the bride — 
" Mother," quoth Ambrose, as he faced the north, 
With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth 
To his day labour, from the cottage door — 
" I'm thinking that to-night, if not before, 
There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton * roar ? 
It's brewing up down westward ; and look there ! 
One of those sea-gulls — ay, there goes a pair. 

A fresh- water spring rushing into the sea called Chewton Bunny. 



198 The Young Grey Head. 

And such a sudden thaw ! If rain comes on, 
As threats, the waters will be out anon. 
That path by the ford's a nasty bit of way — 
Best let the young ones bide from school to-day." 

" Do, mother, do ! " the quick-eared urchins cried, 
Two little lasses, to the father's side 
Close clinging, as they looked from him, to spy 
The answering language of the mother's eye. 
There was denial, and she shook her head : 
" Nay, nay — no harm will come to them," she said, 
" The mistress lets them off, these short dark days, 
An hour the earlier ; and our Liz, she says, 
May quite be trusted — and I know 'tis true — 
To take care of herself and Jenny too. 
And so she ought — she seven come first of May, 
Two years the oldest : and they give away 
The Christmas bounty at the school to-day." 

The mother's will was law — alas for her 
That hapless day, poor soul ! She could not err, 
Thought Ambrose ; and his little fair-haired Jane, 
Her namesake, to his heart he hugged again, 
When each had had her turn, she clinging so 
As if that day she could not let him go. 
But Labour's sons must snatch a hasty bliss 
In nature's tenderest mood. One last fond kiss — 
" God bless my little maids ! " the father said, 
And cheerly went his way to win their bread. 
Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone, 
What looks demure the sister pair put on — 
Not of the mother as afraid or shy, 
Or questioning the love that could deny, 
But simply, as their simple training taught, 



The Young Grey Head. 199 

In quiet, plain straightforwardness of thought 
(Submissively resigned the hope of play), 
Towards the serious business of the day. 

To me there's something touching, I confess, 
In the grave look of early thoughtfulness, 
Seen often in some little childish face 
Among the poor. Not that wherein we trace . 
(Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race !) 
The unnatural sufferings of the factory child, 
But a staid quietness, reflective, mild, 
Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes, 
Sense of life's cares, without its miseries. 

So to the mother's charge, with thoughtful brow, 
The docile Lizzy stood attentive now, 
Proud of her years and of imputed sense, 
And prudence justifying confidence ; 
And little Jenny, more demurely still, 
Beside her waited the maternal will. 
So standing hand in hand, a lovelier twain 
Gainsborough ne'er painted ; no, nor he of Spain, 
Glorious Murillo ! — and by contrast shown 
More beautiful. The younger little one, 
With large blue eyes, and silken ringlets fair, 
By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth parted hair, 
Sable and glossy as the raven's wing, 
And lustrous eyes as dark. 

" Now, mind and bring 
Jenny safe home," the mother said — " don't stay 
To pull a bough or berry by the way : 
And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast 
Your little sister's hand till you're quite past — 
That plank's so crazy, and so slippery, 



200 The Young Grey Head. 

If not o'erflowed, the stepping-stones will be. 

But you're good children, steady as old folk — 

I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzy's cloak, 

A good grey duffle, lovingly she tied, 

And amply little Jenny's lack supplied 

With her own warmest shawl. " Be sure," said she, 

' ' To wrap it round and knot it carefully, 

Like this, when you come home, just leaving free 

One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away — 

Good will to school, and then good right to play." 

Was there no sinking at the mother's heart, 
When, all equipt, they turned them to depart ? 
When down the lane she watched them as they 

went, 
Till out of sight, was no forefeeling sent 
Of coming ill ? In truth I cannot tell : 
Such warnings have been sent, we know full well, 
And must believe — believing that they are — 
In mercy then — to rouse — restrain — prepare. 

And, now I mind me, something of the kind 
Did surely haunt that day the mother's mind, 
Making it irksome to bide all alone 
By her own quiet hearth. Though never known 
For idle gossipry was Jenny Gray, 
Yet so it was, that morn she could not stay 
At home with her own thoughts, but took her way 
To her next neighbour's half a loaf to borrow — 
Yet might her store have lasted out the morrow. 
And with the loan obtained, she lingered still : 
Said she — " My master, if he'd had his will, 
Would have kept back our little ones from school 
This dreadful morning ; and I'm such a fool, 



The Young Grey Head. 201 

Since they've been gone, I've wished them back. But 

then 
It won't do in such things to humour men, 
Our Ambrose specially. If let alone 
He'd spoil those wenches. But it's coming on, 
That storm he said was brewing, sure enough. 
Well, what of that ? To think what idle stuff 
Will come into one's head ! and here with you 
I stop, as if I'd nothing else to do — 
And they'll come home drowned rats. I must be gone . 
To get dry things, and set the kettle on." 

His day's work done, three mortal miles and more 
Lay between Ambrose and his cottage door. 
A weary way, God wot ! for weary wight. 
But yet far off the curling smoke's in sight 
From his own chimney, and his heart feels light. 
How pleasantly the humble homestead stood, 
Down the green lane by sheltering Shirley Wood ! 
How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze 
In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees, 
Sheeted with blossom ! And in hot July, 
From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry, 
How grateful the cool covert to regain 
Of his own avenue, that shady lane, 
With the white cottage, in a slanting glow 
Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below, 
And jasmine porch, his rustic portico ! 

With what a thankful gladness in his face 
(Silent heart-homage — plant of special grace !), 
At the lane's entrance, slackening oft his pace, 
Would Ambrose send a loving look before ; 
Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door, 



202 The Young Grey Head. 

The very blackbird strained its little throat 
In welcome with a more rejoicing note; 
And honest Tinker, dog of doubtful breed, 
All bristle, back, and tail, but "good at need," 
Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear ; 
But of all welcomes, pleasantest, most dear, 
The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells, 
Of his two little ones. How fondly swells 
The father's heart, as, dancing up the lane, 
Each clasps a hand in her small hand again, 
And each must tell her tale, and " say her say," 
Impeding, as she leads, with sweet delay 
(Childhood's blest thoughtlessness) his onward way. 

And when the winter day closed in so fast, 
Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last ; 
And in all weathers, driving sleet and snow, 
Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must he go, 
Darkling and lonely. Oh! the blessed sight — 
His pole-star — of that little twinkling light 
From one small window, through the leafless trees, 
Glimmering so fitfully, no eye but his 
Had spied it so far off. And sure was he, 
Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see, 
Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour, 
Streaming to meet him from the open door. 
Then, though the blackbird's welcome was unheard, 
Silenced by winter, note of summer bird 
Still hailed him — from no mortal fowl alive, 
But from the cuckoo-clock just striking five. 
And Tinker's ear and Tinker's nose were keen — 
Off started he, and then a form was seen 
Darkening the doorway ; and a smaller sprite, 
And then another, peered into the night, 



The Young Grey Head. 203 

Ready to follow free on Tinker's track, 

But for the mother's hand that held her back. 

And yet a moment — a few steps — and there, 

Pulled o'er the threshold by that eager pair, 

He sits by his own hearth, in his own chair ; 

Tinker takes post beside, with eyes that say, 

" Master, we've done our business for the day. 1 ' 

The kettle sings, the cat in chorus purrs, 

The busy housewife with her tea-things stirs ; 

The door's made fast, the old stuff curtain drawn. 

How the hail clatters ! Let it clatter on. 

How the wind raves and rattles ! What cares he ? 

Safe housed, and warm beneath his own roof-tree, 

With a wee lassie prattling on each knee. 

Such was the hour — hour sacred and apart — 
Warmed in expectancy the poor man's heart. 
Summer and winter, as his toil he plied, 
To him and his the literal doom applied, 
Pronouuced on Adam. But the bread was sweet 
So earned for such dear mouths. The weary feet, 
Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way. 
So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray 
That time I tell of. He had worked all day 
At a great clearing, vigorous stroke on stroke 
Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seemed broke, 
And the strong arm dropt nerveless. What of that ? 
There was a treasure hidden in his hat, 
A plaything for the young ones. He had found 
A dormouse nest, the living ball coiled round 
For its long winter sleep ; and all his thought, 
As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of nought 
But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes, 
And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise, 



204 The Young Grey Head. 

When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer, 
Hard won, the frozen captive to their eare. 

'Twas a wild evening — wild and rough. " I knew," 
Thought Ambrose ; ' ' those unlucky gulls spoke true, 
And Gaffer Chewton never growls for nought. 
I should be mortal 'mazed now if I thought ' 
My little maids were not safe housed before 
That blinding hail-storm — ay, this hour and more. 
Unless by that old crazy bit of board, 
They've not passed dry-foot over Shallow-ford, 
That I'll be bound for, swollen as it must be . . . 
Well ! if my mistress had been ruled by me ..." 
But checking the half-thought as heresy, 
" He looked out for the home-star. There it shone, 
And with a gladdened heart he hastened on. 

He's in the lane again — and there below 
Streams from the open doorway that red glow, 
Which warms him but to look at. For his prize 
Cautious he feels — all safe and snug it lies. 
" Down, Tinker! down, old boy ! — not quite so free : 
The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee. 
But what's the meaning ? — no look-out to-night ! 
No living soul astir ! Pray God all's right ! 
Who's flittering round the peat-stack in such weather? 
Mother ! " You might have felled him with a feather 
When the short answer to his loud " Hillo ! " 
And hurried question — " Are they come?" — was — 
"No!" 

To throw his tools down — hastily unhook 
The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook, 
And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word 



The Young Grey Head. 205 

That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard, 
Was but a moment's act, and he was gone 
To where a fearful foresight led him on. 
Passing a neighbour's cottage in his way — 
Mark Fenton's — him he took with short delay 
To bear him company — for who could say 
What need might be ? They struck into the track 
The children should have taken coming back 
From school that day ; and many a call and shout 
Into the pitchy darkness they sent out, 
And, by the lantern-light, peered all about, 
In every roadside thicket, hole, and nook, 
Till suddenly — as nearing now the brook- 
Something brushed past them. That was Tinker's 

bark. 
Unheeded he had followed in the dark 
Close at his master's heels, but, swift as light, 
Darted before them now. " Be sure he's right — 
He's on the track," cried Ambrose. " Hold the light 
Low down — he's making for the water. Hark ! 
I know that whine — the old dog's found them, Mark." 
So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on 
Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone ! 
And all his dull contracted light could show 
Was the black void and dark swollen stream below. 
"Yet there's life somewhere — more than Tinker's 

whine — 
That's sure," said Mark. " So, let the lantern shine 
Down yonder. There's the dog — and hark ! " — 

"Oh, dear!" 
And a low sob came faintly on the ear, 
Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought, 
Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caught 
Fast hold of something — a dark huddled heap, 



206 The Young Grey Head, 

Half in the water, where 'twas scarce knee-deep 

For a tall man, and half above it, propped 

By some old ragged side-piles that had stopt 

Endways the broken plank when it gave way 

With the two little ones that luckless day. 

" My babes ! my lambkins ! " was the fathers cry. 

One little voice made answer — " Here am I ! " 

'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouched, with face as white, 

More ghastly by the nickering lantern-light, 

Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips, drawn tight, 

Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, 

And eyes on some dark object underneath, 

Washed by the turbid water, fixed like stone — 

One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown, 

Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock. 

There she lay drowned. Could he sustain that shock, 

The doating father ? Where's the unriven rock 

Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part 

As that soft, sentient thing — the human heart ? 

They lifted her from out her watery bed. 
Its covering gone, the lovely little head 
Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside, 
And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied, 
Leaving that free, about the child's small form, 
As was her last injunction — "fast and warm " — 
Too well obeyed — too fast ! A fatal hold 
Affording to the scrag by a thick fold, 
That caught and pinned her in the river's bed, 
While through the reckless water overhead 
Her life-breath bubbled up. 

" She might have lived, 
Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived 
The wretched mother's heart when she knew all, 



The Young Grey Head. 207 

"But for my foolishness about that shawl. 
And Master would have kept them back the day ; 
But I was wilful — driving them away 
In such wild weather ! " 

Thus the tortured heart 
Unnaturally against itself takes part, 
Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe 
Too deep already. They had raised her now, 
And parting the wet ringlets from her brow, 
To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold, 
The father glued his warm ones, ere they rolled 
Once more the fatal shawl, her winding-sheet, 
About the precious clay. One heart still beat 
Warmed by his hearfs blood. To his only child 
He turned him, but her piteous moaning mild 
Pierced him afresh — and now she knew him not. 
" Mother ! " she murmured, " who says I forgot? 
Mother! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold, 
And tied the shawl quite close — she can't be cold — 
But she won't move— we slipt— I don't know how — 
But I held on — and I'm so weary now — 
And it's so dark and cold — oh, dear ! oh, dear ! — 
And she won't move — if daddy was but here ! " 



Poor lamb ! she wandered in her mind, 'twas clear; 
But soon the piteous murmur died away, 
And quiet in her father's arms she lay : 
They their dead burthen had resigned to take 
The living so near lost. For her dear sake, 
And one at home, he armed himself to bear 
His misery like a man. With tender care, 
Doffing his coat her shivering form to fold — 



208 The Young Grey Head. 

His neighbour bearing that which felt no cold — 

He clasped her close ; and so, with little said, 

Homeward they bore the living and the dead. 

From Ambrose Gray's poor cottage, all that night, 

Shone fitfully a little shifting light, 

Above — below : for all were watchers there, 

Save one sound sleeper. Her, parental care, 

Parental watchfulness, availed not now. 

But in the young survivor's throbbing brow 

And wandering eyes delirious fever burned, 

And all night long from side to side she turned, 

Piteously 'plaining like a wounded dove, 

With now and then the murmur — " She won't move! 

And lo ! when morning, as in mockery, bright 

Shone on that pillow — passing strange the sight — 

That young head's raven hair was streaked with white 

No idle fiction this. Such things have been, 

We know. And now I tell what I have seen. 

Life struggled long with death in that small frame 
But it was strong, and conquered. All became 
As it had been with the poor family — 
All — saving that which never more might be : 
There was an empty place — they were but three. 



Little Leonard's " Goodnight." 209 



LITTLE LEONARD'S "GOOD-NIGHT." 

" /^OOD-NIGHT! good-night! I go to sleep," 
VJT Murmured the little child ; — 
And oh ! the ray of heaven that broke 
On the sweet lips that faintly spoke 

That soft " Good -night," and smiled ! 

That angel smile ! that loving look 

From the dim closing eyes ! 
The peace of that pure brow ! But there — 
Ay, on that brow, so young! so fair! — 

An awful shadow lies. 

The gloom of evening — -of the boughs 
That o'er yon window wave? — 

Nay, nay; within these silent walls, 

A deeper, darker shadow falls, 
The twilight of the Grave — 

The twilight of the Grave — for still 

Fast comes the fluttering breath — 
One fading smile — one look of love — 
A murmur — as from brooding dove — 

" Good-night." And this is Death! 

Oh ! who hath called thee " Terrible! " 

Mild Angel ! most benign ! 
Could mother's fondest lullaby 
Have laid to rest more blissfully 

That sleeping babe than thine ! 

Yet this is Death — the doom for all 
Of Adam's race decreed — 
o 



2 1 o " How swift is a glance of the mind ! " 

11 But this poor lamb ! this little one ! — 
What had the guiltless creature done ? " 
Unhappy heart ! take heed ; 

Though He is merciful as just 

Who hears that fond appeal — 
He will not break the bruised reed, 
He will not search the wounds that bleed — 
He only wounds to heal. 

"Let little children come to me," 

He cried, and to His breast 
Folded them tenderly — To-day 
He calls thine unshorn lamb away 
To that securest rest ! 



"HOW SWIFT IS A GLANCE OF THE 
MIND ! " 

AN EXILE'S SONG. 

"When I think of my own native land, 
In a moment I seem to be there." 

THAT flower, that flower ! Oh, pluck that flower for me ! 
There, in the running stream, 
Its silvery* clusters gleam: 
Oh ! give it me ! 
The same ! the very same ! I knew it well, 

Last seen so long ago. Oh, simple flower, 
That sight of thee should waken up this hour 
Thoughts more than tongue can tell ! 
* The Buckbean. 



" How swift is a glance of the mind ! " 211 

A moment since, and I was calm and cold — 
Cold as this world to me, 
With all its pageantry, 
Grown stale and old. 
Now the warm blood, through every throbbing vein 
Fast hurrying, mantles over cheek and brow, 
Like youth and hope rekindling — ebbing now 
To the full heart again : 

Leaving a paler cheek — a glistening eye 
With watery gaze fixed fast 
On visions of the past ; 
Oh ! where am I ? 
At home, at home again in mine own land : 

Its mountain streams are murmuring in mine ear, 
And thrilling voices from loud lips I hear. 
There — there the loving band. 

Mine own long lost ! — Oh ! take the weary one 
To weep on some dear breast 
This agony to rest — 
On thine, my son ! 
Thou answerest not — none answer me — that cry 

Was from mine own sad heart ; and they are gone — 
And at my feet the little brook flows on 
Tranquilly — tranquilly. 

No mountain streamlet of my native land ; 
Yet doth its voice to me 
Sound sweet and soothingly; 
And in mine hand, 
Of those pale flowers, now gemmed with tears, I hold 
Henceforth to memory sacred : — from this hour 
That they've awakened with such wondrous power, 
Dreams of the days of old. 



2i2 On the Removal of some Family Portraits. 



ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY 
PORTRAITS. 

SILENT friends ! fare ye well- 
Shadows ! adieu. 
Living friends long I've lost, 

Now I lose you. 

Bitter tears many I've shed, 

Ye've seen them flow ; 

Dreary hours many I've sped, 

Full well ye know. 

Yet in my loneliness, 

Kindly, methought, 
Still ye looked down on me, 

Mocking me not 

With light speech and hollow words, 
Grating so sore 

The sad heart, with many ills 

Sick to the core. 

Then, if my clouded skies 

Brightened awhile, 

Seemed your soft serious eyes 

Almost to smile. 

Silent friends ! fare ye well — 

Shadows ! adieu. 

Living friends long I've lost, 

Now I lose you. 



On the Removal of some Family Portraits, 213 

Taken from hearth and board, 

When all were gone ; 

I looked up at you, and felt 

Not quite alone. 

Not quite companionless, 

While in each face 

Met me familiar 

The stamp of my race. 

Thine, gentle ancestress ! 

Dove-eyed and fair, 
Melting in sympathy 

Oft for my care. 

Grim Knight and stern visaged ! 

Yet could I see, 
Smoothing that furrowed face, 

Good- will to me. 

Bland looks were beaming 

Upon me, I knew, 
Fair sir ! — bonnie lady ! — 

From you, and from you. 

Little think happy ones, 

Heart-circled round, 

How fast to senseless things 

Hearts may be bound ; 

How when the living prop's 

Mouldered and gone, 

Heart-strings, low trailing left, 

Clasp the cold stone. 



214 On the Removal of some Family Portraits, 

Silent friends ! fare ye well — 

Shadows ! adieu. 
. Living friends long I've lost, 

Now I lose you. 

Often, when spirit-vexed, 

Weary and worn, 
To your quiet faces, mute 

Friends, would I turn. 

Soft as I gazed on them, 

Soothing as balm, 

Lulling the passion-storm, 

Stole your deep calm — 

Till, as I longer looked, 

Surely, methought, 

Ye read and replied to 

My questioning thought. 

' ' Daughter, " ye softly said — 

' ' Peace to thine heart : 

We too — yes, daughter! have 

Been as thou art, 

* ' Tossed on the troubled waves, 
Life's stormy sea ; 

Chance and change manifold 

Proving like thee. 

" Hope-lifted — doubt-depressed — 
Seeing in part — 

Tried — troubled — tempted — 

Sustained as thou art — 



Sonnet. 215 

" Our God is thy God— what He 

Willeth is best — 
Trust him as we trusted : then 

Rest, as we rest." 

Silent friends ! fare ye well — 

Shadows ! adieu — 
One Friend abideth still 

All changes through. 



SONNET.— 1818. 

DARK rolling clouds, in wild confusion driven, 
Obscure the full-orbed moon. In all the heaven 
One only star — the appointed evening light — 
Beams mildly forth ; like friendly Pharos bright, 
That, kindled on some towering summit, streams 
Wide o'er the ocean-paths. Its far-off beams 
First seen by him who on the silent deck 
Paces his lonely watch — a glimmering speck, 
Doubtful in distance. But his homeward eye 
Is keen the faithful beacon to descry, 
And mine, like his, impatient to explore — 
With friends and kindred thronged — the distant shore, 
Is fixed on that lone star, whose lovely ray 
Points to a happier home the heavenward way. 



2 1 6 Wild Flowers, 



WILD FLOWERS. 

YE who courtly beauty prize, 
Cast not here your scornful eyes 
Nature's lowly children we, 
Bred on bank, in brake, on lea, 
By the meadow runlet's brink, 
In the tall cliff's craggy chink, 
On the seashore's arid shingle, 
On bleak moor, in bosky dingle, 
On old tower and ruined wall, 
By the sparkling waterfall. 

Not a hue of gaudier glow, 
Not a streak to art we owe ; 
Never hand but Nature's own — 
Nature's " sweet and cunning one" — 
Hath imparted charm and grace 
To our unaspiring race : 
All her elements of might, 
Common air and common light, 
Shower and sunshine, mist and dew ; 
And her labourers — blithe ones too — 
All unhired, for love she finds — 
Bees, and birds, and wandering winds. 

Courtly scorners ! not for ye 
Bloom our tribes of low degree. 
Stately aloe, tuberose tall, 
Fitly grace baronial hall, 
Flaunting in exotic pride, 
Sculptured nymph or fawn beside, 



Wild Flowers. 217 

From marble vase on terrace wide, 
Where jewelled robes sweep rustling by, 
And lordly idlers lounge and sigh ; — 
There intrude not such as we, 
Commoners of low degree. 
Yet have we our lovers too, 
Hearts to holy Nature true, 
Such as find in all her ways 
Objects for delight and praise, 
From the cedar, straight and tall, 
To " the hyssop on the wall." 

Favoured mortals ! to your eyes, 

All unveiled, an Eden lies, 

Hidden from the worldling's view ; 

Wells of water gush for you 

Where his sealed sight doth spy 

Nought but dull aridity. 

Hither come — to you we'll tell 

Where our sweetest sisters dwell — 

Show you every secret cell 

Where the coy take sanctuary, 

" Pale maids that unmarried die " — 

Primroses, and paler yet, 

The unstained, odorous violet. 

Hither come, and you shall see 

Where the loveliest lilies be — 

They through forest vistas gleaming 

(Azure clouds of heaven's own seeming) — 

They their snowy heads that hide, 

Cowering by the coppice side — 

They that stand in nodding ranks, 

All along the river's banks, 

Golden daffodils ; and they — 



2 1 8 Wild Flowers. 

Brightest of the bright array— 
With a swan-like grace that glide, 
Anchored on the waveless tide, — 
These and flowery myriads more, 
All their charms — a countless store — 
All their sweets shall yield to thee, 
Nature's faithful votary ! 

Though we grace not lordly halls, 
Yet, on rustic festivals, 
Who than we are fitlier seen 
Flaunting o'er the village green ? 
Many a kerchief deck we there, 
Many a maiden's nut-brown hair ; 
Many a straw hat, plaited neat 
By shepherd boy, we make complete 
With cowslip cark'net : — Then to see 
With what an air, how jauntily 
On his curled pate 'tis stuck awry, 
To snare some cottage beauty's eye ! 

Joyous childhood, roving free, 
With our sweet bells greedily 
Both his chubby hands doth fill. 
Welcome plunderer ! pluck at will, 
Nature's darling ! dear to thee 
More than garden tribes are we. 
Pluck at will enough to deck, 
Boy, thy favourite lambkin's neck. 

Pineth some pale wretch away 
In prison cell, where cheerful day 
Only through the deep-set bars 
Beams obliquely, and the stars 



Wild Flowers. 219 

Scarce can glance a pitying eye 
On the poor soul's misery ? 
Haply on some lodgment nigh, 
Mossy bastion's mouldering edge, 
Loophole chink, or grating ledge, 
One of us (some fragrant thing) 
Taketh stand, and thence doth fling 
On the kind air soft perfume 
Down to that dark prison room. 
Entering with the balmy gale, 
Thoughts of some dear native vale, 
Some sweet home by mountain stream, 
On the captive's soul may gleam, 
Wafting him, in fondest dream, 
To the grass-plat far away, 
Where his little children play. 

On the poor man's grave we're found, 
Honouring the unhonoured ground ; 
To the grave — the grave, for aye — 
Reverential dues we pay, 
When all thought hath passed away 
From all living, long ago, 
Of the dust that sleeps below ; 
From the sunken hillock gone, 
E'en the cold memorial stone, 
Unforsaking, we alone 
Year by year fresh tribute spread 
O'er the long-forgotten dead. 



2 2 o To Little Mary. 



TO LITTLE MARY. 

I'M bidden, little Mary ! 
To write verses upon thee ; 
I'd fain obey the bidding 

If it rested but with me : 
But the Mistresses I'm bound to — 

Nine Ladies hard to please — 
Of all their stores poetic 

So closely keep the keys, 
It's only now and then, 

By good luck, as one may say, 
That a couplet or a rhyme or two 

Falls fairly in my way. 

Fruit forced is never half so sweet 

As that comes quite in season — 
But some folks must be satisfied 

With rhyme in spite of reason. 
So, Muses ! now befriend me, 

Albeit of help so chary, 
To string the pearls of poesie 

For loveliest little Mary. 

And yet, ye pagan Damsels ! 

Not over fond am I 
To invoke your haughty favours, 

Your fount of Castaly. 
I've sipt a purer fountain, 

I've decked a holier shrine, 



To Little Mary, 221 

I own a mightier Mistress — 

O Nature ! Thou art mine. 
And Feeling's fount than Castaly 

Yields waters more divine ! 



And only to that well-head, 

Sweet Mary ! I'll resort, 
For just an artless verse or two, 

A simple strain and short, 
Befitting well a Pilgrim 

Wayworn with earthly strife, 
To offer thee, young Traveller ! 

In the morning track of life. 

There's many a one will tell thee 

.'Tis all with roses gay — 
There's many a one will tell thee 

'Tis thorny all the way — 
Deceivers are they every one, 

Dear Child ! who thus pretend ; 
God's ways are not unequal — 

Make Him thy trusted friend, 
And many a path of pleasantness 

He'll clear away for thee, 
However dark and intricate 

The labyrinth may be. 

I need not wish thee beauty — 
I need not wish thee grace — 

Already both are budding 
In that infant form and face. 

I will not wish thee grandeur — 
I will not wish thee wealth — 



222 Sonnet, 



But only a contented heart, 

Peace — competence — and health- 
Fond friends to love thee dearly, 

And honest friends to chide, 
And faithful ones to cleave to thee, 
Whatever may betide. 

And now, my little Mary ! 

If better things remain, 
Unheeded in my blindness, 

Unnoticed in my strain, 
I'll sum them up succinctly, 

In " English undefiled," 
My mother tongue's best benison, — 

God bless thee — precious Child ! 



SONNET.— 1821. 

STAY, flaming chariot ! fiery coursers, stay, 
Soft gleams of setting sunshine, that doth cast 
A lustrous line along the dark wide waste ! 

Oh ! wherefore must ye fade so swift away ? 

Wherefore, oh ! wherefore, at the close of day 
Shine out so glorious, when Night's sable pall 
Will drop around so soon, and cover all ? 

Beautiful beam ! bright traveller ! stay, oh, stay ! 

And let my spirit on your parting ray 

Glide from this world of error, doubt, distress — 
(Oh ! I am weary of its emptiness) — 

To happier worlds, where there is peace for aye, 
Peace! less abiding here' than Noah's dove, 
When we shall never part from those we love ! 



The Legend of the Lido. 223 



THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO. 



HE stood before the Signori, 
With a truthful look and bold, 
A look of calm simplicity, 

That fisherman poor and old ; 
Though every face, with a gathering frown 
And a searching glance, looked darkly down 
While his wonderful tale he told. 

II. 

And though a voice from — he knew not where 

(For none beside him stood), 
Breathed in his very ear " Beware ! " 

In a tone might have froze his blood, 
He but crossed himself as he glanced around, 
But faltered neither for sight nor sound, 

For he knew that his cause was good. 

in. 
" I tell the truth— I tell no lie," 

Old Gian Battista said; 
' * But hear me out, and patiently, 

Signori wise and dread ; 
And if I fail sure proof to bring 
How I came by this golden ring " 
(He held it high, that all might see), 
" There are the cells and the Piombi — 

Or — off with this old grey head. 



2*24 The Legend of the Lido, 

IV. 

' ' Ye know — all know — what fearful work 
The winds and waves have driven 

These three days past. That darkness murk 
So shrouded earth and heaven, 

We scarce could tell if sun or moon 

Looked down on island or lagune, 

Or if 'twere midnight or high noon ; 

And yells and shrieks were in the air, 

As if with spirits in despair 
The very fiends had striven. 



' ' And busy, sure enough, were they, 

As soon ye' 11 understand ; 
Many believed the doomful day 

Of Venice was at hand : 
For high o'er every level known, 
The rising flood came crashing on, 
Till not a sea-mark old was seen, 
Nor of the striplet islets green 
A speck of hard, dry sand. 



" ' Well, Gian and his old boat,' quoth I, 
1 Together must sink or swim. 

They've both seen service out wellnigh, 
Half foundered, plank and limb; 

But good San Marco, if he will, 

Can save his own fair city still. 
I put my trust in him.' 



The Legend of the Lido. 225 

VII. 

" So — for the night was closing o'er — 

San Marco's Riva by, 
I thought my little boat to moor, 

And lie down patiently 
To sleep, or watch, as best I might, 
Telling my beads till morning light — 
I scarce could see to make all tight, 

Night fell so suddenly. 

VIII. 

" While I still fumbled, stooping low, 

A voice hailed close at hand. 
I started to my feet, and lo ! 

Hard by, upon the strand, 
Stood one in close-cowled garments white, 
Who seemed by that uncertain light, 
Meth ought, an holy Carmelite, 

Slow beckoning with the hand. 



" Before, in answer to the call, 
I'd cleared my husky throat, 
Down leapt that stately form and tall 

Into my crazy boat — 
A weight to crush it through. But no, 
He came down light as feathered snow, 
As soundless ; and, composedly 
Taking his seat, ' My son,' said he, 
' Unmoor and get afloat.' 



" * Corpo di Bacco ! get afloat 
In such a storm ! ' quoth I, 
P 



226 The Legend of the Lido, 

1 Just as I'm mooring my old boat 

Here snug all night to lie. 
And, Padre, might I make so free, 
What service would you have of me ? ' 
' First to San Giorgio,' answered he, 
' Row swift and steadily ; 

XI. 

* * ' And fear thou not ; for a strong arm 

Will be with thee,' he said, 

* And not a hair shall come to harm, 

This night, of thy grey head. 
And guerdon great shall be thy meed, 
If faithful thou art found at need.' 

* Well, good San Marco be my guide,' 
Quoth I, and my old boat untied ; 

* I've little cause for dread : 



" * Nothing to lose but my old life, — 

So for San Giorgio ! — hey ! ' 
Never again so mad a strife 

Unto my dying day 
Shall I e'er wage with wind and sea ; 
And yet we danced on merrily : 
Now cleaving deep the briny grave, 
Now breasting high the foamy wave, 
Like waterfowl at play. 

XIII. 

" How we spun on ! 'Tis true I plied 

That night a lusty oar ; 
But such a wind and such a tide 

Down full upon us bore ! 



The Legend of the Lido. 227 

And yet — in marvellous little space 
We reached San Giorgio's landing-place. 
■ Well so far, ' said my ghostly fare, 
And bidding me await him there, 
Rose up, and sprang ashore. 

XIV. 

* * And in a moment he was gone, 

Lost in the dark profound ; 
Nor, as my oars I lay upon, 

Heard I a footfall sound 
Going or coming ; and yet twain 
Stood there when the voice hailed again, 

And, starting, I looked round. 

XV. 
" Down stept they both into the boat — 

* And now, my son,' said he 
Whom first I took — s once more afloat, 

Row fast and fearlessly ; 
And for San Nicolo make straight.' 

' Nay, nay,' quoth I — ' 'tis tempting fate ;' 
But he o'erruled me, as of late, 

And — splash ! — away went we. 

XVI. 

1 ' Away, away — through foam and flood ! 

* Rare work this same ! ' thought I, 
' Yet, faith, right merrily we scud ; 

A stouter oar I ply, 
Methinks, than thirty years ago. 
The Carmelite keeps faith, I trow — 
Hurra, then, for San Nicolo ! 

We're a holy crew surely ! ' 



2 2 3 The Legend of the Lido. 

XVII. 

" Thus half in jest, half seriously, 

Unto myself I said, 
Looking askance at my company. 

But our second trip was sped ; 
And there, on the marge of the sea-washed strand, 
Did another ghostly figure stand, 
And down into the boat stept he. 
I crossed myself right fervently, 

With a sense of creeping dread. 

XVIII. 

" But the Carmelite — (I call him so, 

As he seemed at first to me) — 
Said, 'Now, my son, for the Castles row! 

Great things thou soon shalt see.' 
Without a word, at his bidding now 
For the Lido Strait T turned my prow, 
And took to my oar with a thoughtful brow, 

And pulled on silently. 

XIX. 

" When to the Lido pass we came, 

Cospetto ! what a sight ! 
Air, sky, and sea seemed all on flame, 

And by that lurid light 
I saw a ship come sailing in 
Like a ship of hell, and a fiendish din 
From the fiendish crew on her deck rose high, 
And ' Ho ! ho ! ho ! ' was the cursed cry — 

1 Venice is doomed to-night ! ' 



The Legend of the Lido. 229 

xx. 
* ' Then in my little boat, the three, 

With each a stretched-out hand, 
Stood up ; — and that sign, made silently, 

Was one of high command. 
For in a moment, over all, 
Thick darkness dropt, as 'twere a pall ; 
And the winds and waves sank down to sleep, 
Though the muttering thunder, low and deep, 

Ran round from strand to -strand. 

XXI. 

"As it died away, the murky veil, 

Like a curtain, aside was drawn; 
And lo ! on the sea lay the moonlight pale, 

And the demon-ship was gone. 
The moonlight lay on the glassy sea, 
And the bright stars twinkled merrily, 

Where the rippling tide rolled on. 



" ' Well done, well done, so far, my son ! ' 

Said the first of the ghostly three. 
* Thy good night's work is wellnigh done, 

And the rich reward to be : 
Put back, and, as we homeward row, 
Land these my brethren dear ; whom know 
For San Giorgio and San Nicolo — 
Thou shalt afterwards know me.' 

XXIII. 

" ' And doubtless,' to myself I said, 
' For the greatest of the three : ' 



230 The Legend of the Lido. 

But I spoke not ; only bowed my head, 

Obeying reverently : 
And pulling back, with heart elate, 
Landed as bidden my saintly freight. 
That ever, old boat, it should be thy fate, 

To have held such company ! 

XXIV. 

" The voyage was done ; the Riva won, 

From whence we put to sea. 
' And now, my son,' said the mighty one, 

' Once more attend to me. 
Present thee with the coming day 
Before the Signori, and say, 
That I, San Marco, sent thee there, 
The great deliverance to declare, 

This night wrought gloriously. 

XXV. 

* ' ' What thou hast heard and seen this night 

With fearless speech unfold : 
And thy good service to requite, 

I will to thee be told 
Five hundred ducats ! ' * Holy saint ! ' 
I meekly asked, with due restraint, 
' Will they believe what I shall say, 
And count, on his bare word, such pay 

To the fisherman poor and old ? ' 

XXVI. 

" 'This token give to them,' said he; 

And from his finger drew 
The ring, most noble Signori, 

I here present to you. 



The Legend of the Lido. 231 

* Let search in my treasury be made, 
'Twill be found missing there,' he said, 
So vanished from my view ! " 



XXVII. 

There ran a whispering murmur round, 

As Gian closed his tale ; 
And some, still unbelieving, frowned, 

And some with awe grew pale. 
Then all, as with one voice cried out, 
* c Why sit we here in aimless doubt, 
The means and place of proof so nigh ? 
One glance at the holy treasury 

All words will countervail. " 

XXVIII. 

Led by the Doge Gradenigo, 

Set forth the solemn train, 
Through arch and column winding slow, 

Till the great church door they gain. 
With them the fisherman was led, 
Guarded by two ; but his old head 
He held up high : — " For sure," said he, 
" San Marco will keep faith with me, 

And prove his own words plain." 

XXIX. 

The Proveditore stept on first, 

With high authority ; 
And at his word, wide open burst 

The saintly treasury; 
And holy monks, with signs devout, 
Held high the blessed relics out, 



232 The Legend of the Lido. 

And gifts of emperors and kings, 
Priceless, inestimable things, 
Displayed triumphantly. 

XXX. 

Familiar as their beads to them — 

So oft recounted o'er 
Each history — was relic, gem, 

And all the sacred store. 
But now — '* What know ye of this thing?" 
The Doge said, holding forth the ring; 

" Have ye seen its like before?" 

XXXI. 

Short scrutiny sufficed. " Full well 
That ring we know," said they. 

" But if taken hence by miracle, 
Or how, we cannot say. 

'Tis the same this blessed image wore, 

San Marco's self." All doubt was o'er. 

" Viva San Marco evermore ! " 
Was the deafening roar that day. 

XXXII. 

What throat than Gian's louder strained 
The exulting sound to swell ? 

And when the ducats, fairly gained, 
Into his cap they tell, 

With promise for San Marco's sake 

I ike sum a yearly dole to make : 
" Viva San Marco ! " shouted he ; 

II Who would not row in such company 
Against all the fiends in hell ? " 



The River, 233 



THE RIVER. 

RIVER! River! little River! 
Bright you sparkle on your way, 
O'er the yellow pebbles dancing, 
Through the flowers and foliage glancing, 
Like a child at play. 

River ! River ! swelling River ! 

On you rush o'er rough and smooth- 
Louder, faster, brawling, leaping, 
Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping, 
Like impetuous youth. 

River ! River ! brimming River ! 

Broad and deep and still as Time, 
Seeming still — yet still in motion, 
Tending onward to the ocean, 
Just like mortal prime. 

River! River! rapid River! 

Swifter now you slip away ; 
Swift and silent as an arrow, 
Through a channel dark and narrow, 
Like life's closing day. 

River ! River ! headlong River ! 

Down you dash into the sea ; 
Sea, that line hath never sounded, 
Sea, that voyage hath never rounded, 
Like eternity. 



234 Sunday Evening. 



SUNDAY EVENING. 

I SAT last Sunday evening, 
From sunset even till night, 
At the open casement, watching 
The day's departing light. 

Such hours to me are holy, 
Holier than tongue can tell, 

They fall on my heart like dew 
On the parched heather-bell. 

The sun had shone bright all day — 
His setting was brighter still, 

But there sprang up a lovely air 
As he dropt down the western hill. 

The fields and lanes were swarming 
With holiday folks in their best, 

Released from their six days' cares 
By the seventh day's peace and rest. 

I heard the light-hearted laugh, 
The trampling of many feet ; 

I saw them go merrily by, 

And to me the sight was sweet. 

There's a sacred soothing sweetness, 
A pervading spirit of bliss ; 

Peculiar from all other times, 
In a Sabbath eve like this. 



Sunday Evening. 235 

Methinks, though I knew not the day, 
Nor beheld those glad faces, yet all 

Would tell me that Nature was keeping 
Some solemn festival. 

The steer and the steed in their pastures 

Lie down with a look of peace, 
As if they knew 'twas commanded 

That this day their labour should cease. 

The lark's vesper song is more thrilling 
As he mounts to bid heaven good-night ; 

The brook sings a quieter tune, 
The sun sets in lovelier light. 

The grass, the green leaves, and the flowers, 
Are tinged with more exquisite hues ; 

More odorous incense from out them 
Steams up with the evening dews. 

So I sat last Sunday evening 

Musing on all these things, 
With that quiet gladness of spirit 

No thought of this world brings : 

I watched the departing glory, 

Till its last red streak grew pale, 
And earth and heaven were woven 

In twilight's dusky veil. 

Then the lark dropt down to his mate 

By her nest on the dewy ground ; 
And the stir of human life 

Died away to a distant sound : 



236 Sunday Evening, 

All sounds died away — the light laugh, 
The far footstep, the merry call — 

To such stillness, the pulse of one's heart 
Might have echoed a rose-leafs fall : 

And, by little and little, the darkness 

Waved wider its sable wings, 
Till the nearest objects and largest 

Became shapeless confused things — 

And, at last, all was dark — then I felt 
A cold sadness steal over my heart ; 

And I said to myself, " Such is life ! 
So its hopes and its pleasures depart ! 

* ' And when night comes — the dark night of age, 
What remaineth beneath the sun 

Of all that was lovely and loved ? 
Of all we have learnt and done ? 

* ' When the eye waxeth dim, and the ear 
To sweet music grows dull and cold, 

And the fancy burns low, and the heart — 
Oh, heavens ! can the heart grow old ? 

" Then, what remaineth of life 
But the lees with bitterness fraught ? 

What then ? " — But I checked as it rose, 
And rebuked that weak, wicked thought. 

And I lifted mine eyes up, and lo ! 

An answer was written on high 
By the finger of God himself, 

In the depths of the dark blue sky. 



The Churchyard. 237 

There appeared a sign in the east — 

A bright, beautiful, fixed star ! 
And I looked on its steady light 

Till the evil thoughts fled afar ; 

And the lesser lights of heaven 

Shone out with their pale soft rays, 
Like the calm unearthly comforts 

Of a good man's latter days ; 

And there came up a sweet perfume 

From the unseen flowers below, 
Like the savour of virtuous deeds, 

Of deeds done long ago — 

Like the memory of well-spent time, 

Of things that were holy and dear ; 
Of friends, " departed this life 

In the Lord's faith and fear." 

So the burden of darkness was taken 
From my soul, and my heart felt light ; 

And I laid me down to slumber 
With peaceful thoughts that night. 



THE CHURCHYARD. 

THE thought of early death was in my heart ; 
Of the dark grave, and "dumb forgetfulness ; " 
And with a weight like lead, 
And overwhelming dread, 
Mysteriously my spirit did oppress. 



238 The Churchyard. 

And fortli I roamed in that distressful mood 
Abroad into the sultry, sunless day ; 
All hung with one dark cloud, 
That like a sable shroud 
On Nature's deep sepulchral stillness lay. 

Black fell the shadows of the churchyard elms — 
Unconsciously my feet had wandered there — 
And through that awful gloom — 
Head-stone and altar tomb 
Among the green heaps gleamed with ghastlier glare. 

Death — death was in my heart, as there I stood, 
Mine eyes fast fixed upon a grass-grown mound ; 

As though they would descry 

The loathsome mystery 
Consummating beneath that charnel ground. 

Death — death was in my heart. Methought I felt 
A heavy hand, that pressed me down below ; 

And some resistless power 

Made me, in that dark hour, 
Half long to be, where I abhorred to go. 

Then suddenly, albeit no breeze was felt, 

Through the tall tree-tops ran a shivering sound — - 

Forth from the western heaven 

Flashed out the flaming levin, 
And one long thunder-peal rolled echoing round. 

One long, long echoing peal, and all was peace ; 

Cool rain-drops gemmed the herbage — large and few ; 
And that dull vault of lead, 
Disparting over head, 
Down beamed an eye of soft celestial blue. 



To the Sweet- Scented Cyclamen. 239 

And up toward the heavenly portal sprang 
A skylark, scattering off the feathery rain — 

Up from my very feet; — 

And oh ! how clear and sweet 
Rang through the fields of air his mounting strain. 

Blithe, blessed creature ! take me there with thee — 
I cried in spirit — passionately cried — 

But higher still and higher 

Rang out that living Lyre, 
As if the Bird disdained me in his pride. 

And I was left below, but now no more 

Plunged in the doleful realms of Death and Night — 
Up with the skylark's lay, 
My soul had winged her way 
To the supernal source of Life and Light. 



TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. 

I LOVE thee well, my dainty flower ! 
My wee, white cowering thing, 
That shrinketh like a cottage maid, 
Of bold, uncivil eyes afraid, 
Within thy leafy ring ! 

I love thee well, my dainty dear ! 

Not only that thou'rt fair- 
Not only for thy downcast eye, 
Nor thy sweet breath, so lovingly 

That woos the caller air — 



240 To the Sweet- Scented Cyclamen. 

But that a world of dreamy thoughts 

The sight of thee doth bring ; 
Like birds who've wandered far from hence, 
And come again, we know not whence, 
At the first call of spring. 

As here I stand and look on thee, 
Before mine eyes doth pass — 
Clearing and quickening as I gaze — 
An evening scene of other days, 
As in a magic glass. 

I see a small old-fashioned room, 

With pannelled wainscot high — 
Old portraits, round in order set, 
Carved heavy tables, chairs, buffet 
Of dark mahogany ; 

Twin china jars, on brackets high, 

With grinning Monsters crowned ; 

And one that, like a Phoenix' nest, 

Exhales all Araby the Blest, 

From that old bookcase round. 

And/there a high-backed, hard settee, 

On six brown legs and paws, 
Flowered o'er with silk embroidery, 
And there, all rough with filigree, 
Tall screens on gilded claws. 

Down drops the damask curtain there 

In many a lustrous fold ; 
The fire-light flashing broad and high, 
Floods its pale amber gorgeously 

With waves of redder gold. 



To the Sweet- Scented Cyclamen. 241 

And lo ! the flamy brightness wakes 

Those pictured shapes to life — 
My Lady's lip grows moist and warm, 
And dark Sir Edward's mailed form 

Starts out for mortal strife ; 

And living, breathing forms are round — 

Some gently touched by Time, 
Staid Elders, clustering by the hearth, 
And one, the soul of youthful mirth, 

Outlasting youthful prime. 

And there — where she presides so well, 

With fair dispensing hands — 
Where tapers shine, and porcelain gleams, 
And muffins smoke, and tea-urn steams, 

The Pembroke Table stands — 

That heir-loom Tea-pot — Graphic Muse ! 

Describe it if thou'rt able — 
Methinks — were such advances meet — 
On those three, tiny, toddling feet, 

'T would swim across the table 

And curtsy to the coffee-pot — 

Coquettishly demure, — 
Tall, quaint compeer ! — fit partner he 
To lead with her so gracefully 

Le minuet de la cour ! 

Ah, precious Monsters ! dear Antiques ! 

More beautiful to me, 
Than modern, fine, affected things, 
With classic claws, and beaks, and wings — 

" God save the mark ! " — can be. 
Q 



242 To the Sweet- Scented Cyclamen. 

How grateful tastes the infused herb ! 

How pleasant its perfume ! 
Some sit and sip ; — with cup in hand 
This saunters round ; — while others stand 

In knots about the room — 

In cozy knots — there, three and four — 

And here, one, two, and three — 
Here by my little dainty flower — 
Oh fragrant thing ! Oh pleasant hour ! 
Oh gentle company ! 

Come, Idler, set that cup aside, 

And tune the flute for me — 
What will I have ? Oh, prithee, play 
That air I love — " Te bien aimer 

Pour toujours ma Zelie." 

Sweet air! — sweet flower! — sweet social looks !- 
Dear friends ! — young, happy hearts ! 

How now ! — What ! all alone am I ? 

Come they with cruel mockery 
Like shadows to depart ? 

Ay, shadows all — gone every face 

I loved to look upon — 
Hushed every strain I loved to hear, 
Or sounding in a distant ear — 

" All gone ! — all gone ! — all gone ! " 

Some far away in other lands — 

In this, some worse than dead — 
Some in their graves laid quietly — 
One, slumbering in the deep, deep sea — 
All gone !— all lost !— all fled ! 



The Welcome Home. 243 

And here am I — I live and breathe, 

And stand, as then I stood, 
Beside my little dainty flower — 
But now, in what an altered hour ! 

In what an altered mood ! 

And yet I love to linger here — 

To inhale this odorous breath, 
Faint as a whisper from the tomb — 
To gaze upon this pallid bloom 

As on the face of Death. 



THE WELCOME HOME.— 1820. 

HARK ! hark ! they're come ! — those merry bells, 
That peal their joyous welcome swells ; 
And many hearts are swelling high, 
With more than joy — with ecstasy ! 

And many an eye is straining now 
T'ward that good ship, that sails so slow ; 
And many a look toward the land 
They cast, upon that deck who stand. 

Flow, flow, ye tides ! — ye languid gales, 
Rise, rise, and fill their flagging sails ! — 
Ye tedious moments, fly, begone, 
And speed the blissful meeting on. 

Impatient watchers ! happy ye, 
Whose hope shall soon be certainty ; 
Happy, thrice happy ! soon to strain 
Fond hearts to kindred hearts again ! 



244 The Welcome Home. 

Brothers and sisters — children — mother — 
All, all restored to one another ! 
All, all returned ! — And are there none 
To me restored, returned ? — Not one. 

Far other meeting mine must be 
With friends long lost — far other sea 
Than thou, oh restless ocean ! flows 
Betwixt us — One that never knows 

Ebb-time or flood ; — a stagnant sea ; — 
Time's gulf; — its shore Eternity ! — 
No voyager from that shadowy bourne 
With chart or sounding may return. 

There, there they stand — the loved ! — the lost ! 
They beckon from that awful coast ! — 
They cannot thence return to me, 
But I shall go to them. — I see 

E'en now, methinks, those forms so dear, 
Bend smiling to invite me there. — 
Oh ! best beloved ! a little while, 
And I obey that beckoning smile ! 

'Tis all my comfort now, to know 
In God's good time it shall be so ; 
And yet, in that sweet hope's despite, 
Sad thoughts oppress my heart to-night. 

And doth the sight of others' gladness 
Oppress this selfish heart with sadness ? 
Now Heaven forbid ! — but tears will rise — 
Unbidden tears — into mine eyes. 



The Welcome Home. 245 

When busy thoughts contrast with theirs 

My fate, my feelings — Four brief years 

Have winged their flight, since, where they stand, 

I stood and watched that parting band 

Then parting hence — and one, methought — 
Oh, human foresight ! set at nought 
By God's unfathomed will ! — was borne 
From England, never to return ! — 

With saddened heart I turned to seek 
Mine own beloved home — to speak 
With her who shared it, of the fears 
She also shared in .... It appears 

But yesterday that thus we spoke ; 
And I can see the very look 
With which she said, " I do believe 
Mine eyes have ta'en their last long leave 

Of her who is gone hence to-day ! " 
Five months succeeding slipped away ; 
And, on the sixth, a deep-toned bell 
Swung slow, of recent death to tell ! 

It tolled for her, with whom so late 
I reasoned of impending fate ; 
To me, those solemn words who spoke 
So late with that remembered look ! 

And now, from that same steeple, swells 
A joyous peal of merry bells, 
Her welcome, whose approaching doom 
We blindly thought— -a foreign tomb ! 



I 






/ 






246 The Death of the Flowers. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

HOW happily, how happily the flowers die away ! 
Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they ; 
Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence, and bloom, 
Then drop without decrepitude or pain into the tomb. 

The gay and glorious creatures ! ' ' they neither toil nor 

spin," 
Yet lo ! what goodly raiment they're all apparelled in ; 
No tears are on their beauty, but dewy gems more bright 
Than ever brow of eastern Queen, endiademed with light. 

The young -rejoicing creatures! their pleasures never pall — 
Nor lose in sweet contentment, because so free to all; 
The dew, the shower, the sunshine; the balmy blessed air, 
Spend nothing of their freshness, though all may freely 
share. 

The happy careless creatures ! of time they take no heed ; 
Nor weaiy of his creeping, nor tremble at his speed ; 
Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the light away; 
Nor, when 'tis gone, cry dolefully, " Would God that it 
were day." 

And when their lives are over, they drop away to rest, 
Unconscious of the penal doom, on holy Nature's breast — 
No pain have they in dying — no shrinking from decay. 
Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they ! 



When shall we meet again ? 247 



WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN? 

( 'TT 7"HEN shall we meet again ? " my friend, 
V V An awful question thine ; 
lc Where shall we meet again ? " Not ours 
The secret to divine. 

Not ours to lift the veil, perchance 

In tender mercy drawn ; 
Oh ! could we look beyond, would Hope 

Still lead us cheerly on ? 

Should we behold two living friends, 

Long sundered, meet at last 
In the far distance ? or appalled, 

Our shuddering glances cast 

On a dark mound of Paynim mould 

Uncrowned by turbaned stone ; 
Or a green grave of English earth, 

As lowly and as lone ? 

Oh ! likelier that — that English grave ; 

And one methinks may stand 
Hereafter on its sod, and think 

* ' Alas, my native land ! 

" A warmer welcome had been mine 

This trying hour to cheer, 
Had the poor heart been warm with life 

Which darkly moulders here." 



248 The Landing of the Primrose, 

Nay, let it fall, that blessed veil 

Which shuts the future out ; 
The earthly future — but beyond, 

Away with dread and doubt. 

" When shall we meet ? " When Time is o'er, 

And sorrow past, and pain ; 
" Where shall we meet ?" God grant, in heaven, 

Never to part again. 



THE. LANDING OF THE PRIMROSE. 

AUSTRALIA'S strand was swarming 
With myriads, tier on tier ; 
Like bees, they clung and clustered 
On wall and pile and pier. 

The wanderer and the outcast — 
Hope — Penitence — Despair — 

The felon and the freeman 
Were intermingling there. 

There ran a restless murmur, 

A murmur deep, not loud ; 
For every heart was thrilling 

Through all that motley crowd ; 

And every eye was straining 

To where a good ship lay, 
With England's red-cross waving 

Above her decks that day. 



The Landing of the Primrose. 249 

And comes she, deeply freighted 

With human guilt and shame ? 
And wait those crowds expectant 

To greet with loud acclaim ? 

Or comes she treasure-laden, 

And ache those anxious eyes 
For sight of her rich cargo, 

Her goodly merchandise ? 

See, see ! they lower the long-boat, 

And now they man the barge; 
Tricked out and manned so bravely 

For no ignoble charge. 

Gold gleams on breast and shoulder 

Of England's own true-blue ; 
That sure must be the captain 

Salutes his gallant crew ; 

And that the captain's lady 

They're handing down the side ; 
" Steady, my hearts, now, steady! " 

Was that the coxswain cried. 

" Hold on ! " — she's safely seated; 

" In oars ! " — a sparkling splash; 
" Hats off on deck ! " — one cheer now ; 

" Pull hearties ! " — off they dash. 

And now the lines long stretching 

Of earnest gazers strain, 
Converging to one centre, 

The landing-place to gain. 



250 The Landing of the Primrose. 

" A guard ! a guard! " in haste then 
The governor calls out ; 

' ' Protect the lady's landing 
From all that rabble rout." 

Her foot is on the gunwale, 
Her eyes on that turmoil ; 

A moment so she lingers, 
Then treads Australia's soil. 

With looks of humid wonder 

She gazes all about ; 
And oh ! her woman's nature 

Calls that no " rabble rout." 

For well she reads the feeling 
Each face expressive wears ; 

And well she knows what wakes it—- 
That precious thing she bears. 

That precious thing — oh, wondrous ! 

A spell of potent power 
From English earth transported, 

A little lowly flower. 

Be blessings on that lady, 
Be blessings on that hand, 

The first to plant the primrose 
Upon the exile's land ! 

The sound had gone before her, 
No eye had closed that night ; 

So yearned they for the morrow, 
So longed they for the light. 



The Landing of the Primrose. 251 

She smiles while tears are dropping, 

She holds the treasure high ; 
And land and sea resounding, 

Ring out with one wild cry. 

And sobs at its subsiding 

From manly breasts are heard, 
Stern natures, hearts guilt-hardened, 

To woman's softness stirred. 

One gazes all intentness — 

That felon boy — and lo ! 
The bold bright eyes are glistening, 

Long, long unmoistened so. 

The woman holds her child up : 

" Look, little one! " cries she, 
* * I pulled such when as blithesome 

And innocent as thee." 

No word the old man utters, 

His earnest eyes grow dim ; 
One spot beyond the salt sea 

Is present now to him. 

There blooms the earliest primrose, 

His father's grave hard by ; 
There lieth all his kindred — 

There he shall never lie. 

The living mass moves onward, 

The lady and her train ; 
They press upon her path still, 

To look and look again. 



252 The Dying Mother to her Infant. 

Yet on she moves securely, 
No guards are needed there; 

Of her they hem so closely 
They would not harm a hair. 



Be blessings on that lady ! 

Be blessings on that hand ! 
The first to plant the primrose 

Upon the exile's land. 



THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 

MY Baby! my poor little one! thou'rt come a winter 
flower, 
A pale and tender blossom, in a cold unkindly hour; 
Thou comest like the snowdrop, and like that pretty 

thing, 
The power that calls my bud to life will shield its blossom- 
ing. 

The snowdrop hath no guardian leaves, to fold her safe and 

warm, 
Yet well she bides the bitter blast, and weathers out the 

storm ; 
I shall not long enfold thee thus — not long, but well I 

know 
The everlasting arms, my Babe ! will never let thee go. 



The Dying Mother to her Infant. 253 

The snowdrop — how it haunts me still ! — hangs down her 

fair young head ; 
So thine may droop in days to come, when I have long 

been dead. 
And yet the little snowdrop's safe — from her instruction 

seek; 
For who would crush the motherless, the lowly and the 

meek? 

Yet motherless thou'lt not be long — not long in name, my 

life ! 
Thy father soon will bring him home another, fairer wife ; 
Be loving, dutiful to her — find favour in her sight, 
But never, O my child, forget thine own poor mother 

quite. 

But who will speak to thee of her? — the gravestone at her 

head 
Will only tell the name and age and lineage of the dead ; 
But not a word of all the love — the mighty love for thee, 
That crowded years into an hour of brief maternity. 

They'll put my picture from its place, to fix another's there, 
That picture that was thought so like, and then so passing 

fair! 
Some chamber in thy father's house they'll let thee call 

thine own ; 
Oh ! take it there to look upon, when thou art all alone — 

To breathe thine early griefs unto, if such assail my child; 
To turn to from less loving looks, from faces not so mild. 
Alas ! unconscious little one, thou'lt never know that best, 
That holiest home of all the earth, a living Mother's breast. 



254 The Dying Mother to her Infant. 

I do repent me now too late of each impatient thought, 
That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I ought : 
I've been too hasty, peevish, proud ; I longed to go away ; 
And now I'd fain live on for thee, God will not let me 

stay. 

Oh ! when I think of what I was, and what I might have 
been, — 

A bride last year — and now to die ! — and I am scarce nine- 
teen : 

And just — just opening in my heart a fount of love so new ! 

So deep ! — Could that have run to waste — could that have 
failed me too ? 

The bliss it would have been to see my daughter* at my 

side! 
My prime of life scarce overblown, and hers in all its pride. 
To deck her with my finest things — with all I've rich and 

rare; 
To hear it said — ■" How beautiful ! and good as she is fair ! " 

And then to place the marriage wreath upon that bright 
young brow— 

Oh ! no— not that — 'tis full of thorns Alas ! I'm wander- 
ing now. 

This weak, weak head! this foolish heart ! they'll cheat me 
to the last : 

I've been a dreamer all my life, and now that life is past. 

Thou'lt have thy father's eyes, my child ! — oh ! once how 

kind they were ! 
His long black lashes — his own smile — and just such raven 

hair. 



The Dying Mother to her Infant. 255 

But here's a mark — poor innocent! he'll love thee for't the 

less — 
Like that upon thy mother's cheek his lips were wont to 

press. 

And yet — perhaps I do him wrong — perhaps, when all's 

forgot 
But our young loves, in memory's mood he'll kiss this very 

spot; 
Oh ! then, my dearest ! clasp thine arms about his neck full 

fast, 
And whisper that I blessed him now, and loved him to the 

last. 

I've heard that little infants converse by smiles and signs 
With the guardian band of angels that round about them 

shines, 
Unseen by grosser senses ; — beloved one ! dost thou 
Smile so upon thy heavenly friends, and commune with them 

now? 

And hast thou not one look for me ? Those little restless 

eyes 
Are wandering, wandering, everywhere, the while thy 

Mother dies ; — 
And yet — perhaps thou'rt seeking me — expecting me, mine 

own! 
Come, Death ! and make me to my child at least in spirit 

known. 



256 The Last Journey, 



THE LAST JOURNEY. 

[Michaud, in his description of an Egyptian funeral procession, which 
he met on its way to the cemetery of Rosetta, says — " The procession 
we saw pass stopped before certain houses, and sometimes receded a few 
steps. I was told that the dead stopped thus before the doors of their 
friends to bid them a last farewell, and before those of their enemies to 
effect a reconciliation before they parted for ever." — Correspondence 
d' Orient, par MM. Michaud et Poujoulat.] 



SLOWLY, with measured tread, 
Onward we bear the dead, 
To his long home. 
Short grows the homeward road, 
On with your mortal load. 

Oh, Grave ! we come. 

Yet, yet — ah ! hasten not 
Past each familiar spot 

Where he hath been ; 
Where late he walked in glee, 
There from henceforth to be 

Never more seen. 

Yet, yet — ah ! slowly move — 
Bear not the form we love 

Fast from our sight — 
Let the air breathe on him, 
And the sun leave on him 

Last looks of light. 



The Last Journey. 257 

Rest ye — set down the bier, 
One he loved dwelleth here. 

Let the dead lie 
A moment that door beside, 
Wont to fly open wide 

Ere he came nigh. 

Hearken ! — he speaketh yet — 
" Oh, friend ! wilt thou forget 

(Friend more than brother!) 
How hand in hand we've gone, 
Heart with heart linked in one — 

All to each other ? 

* ' Oh, friend ! I go from thee, 
Where the worm feasteth free, 

Darkly to dwell — 
Giv'st thou no parting kiss ? 
Friend ! is it come to this ? 

Oh, friend, farewell ! " 

Uplift your load again, 
Take up the mourning strain ! 

Pour the deep wail ! 
Lo ! the expected one 
To his place passeth on — 

Grave ! bid him hail. 

Yet, yet — ah ! slowly move ; 
Bear not the form we love 

Fast from our sight — 
Let the air breathe on him, 
And the sun leave on him 

Last looks of li^ht. 



258 The Last Journey . 

Here dwells his mortal foe ; 
Lay the departed low, 

E'en at his gate. — 
Will the dead speak again ? 
Uttering proud boasts and vain, 

Last words of hate ? 



Lo ! the dead lips unclose — 
List ! list ! what sounds are those, 

Plaintive and low? 
" Oh thou, mine enemy! 
Come forth and look on me 

Ere hence I go. 

' ' Curse not thy foeman now — 
Mark ! on his pallid brow 

Whose seal is set ! 
Pardoning I passed away — 
Thou — wage not war with clay — 

Pardon — forget. " 

Now his last labour's done ! 
Now, now the goal is won ! 

Oh, Grave! we come. 
Seal up this precious dust — 
Land of the good and just, 

Take the soul home ! 



The Spell of Music. 259 



THE SPELL OF MUSIC. 



" r\H! neve 
\J Will v> 



ver, never hand of mine 
wake the haf^> again, 
The viewless harp, the many-voiced, 
The long beloved in vain. 



' ' Oh ! never, never heart of mine, 

Throughout its inmost core, 
With thrilling tones and symphonies 

Will vibrate as of yore. 

* * On hand, and heart, and spirit now 

A deadening spell has dropt — 

* The Vision and the Voice ' are o'er, 
I The stream of fancy stopt." 

'Twas thus I mused, when suddenly 

A strain of music stole, 
Like perfume on the night-breeze borne, 

Into mine inmost soul. 

And lo ! the living instrument, 
The chords unswept so long, 

Responded that mysterious touch, 
And trembled into song. 



260 Too Late. 



T 



TOO LATE. 

^OO late — the curse of life ! 
Could we but read 
In many a heart the thoughts that inly bleed, 

How oft were found, 
Engraven deep, those words of saddest sound, 
Curse of our mortal state, 
Too late ! too late ! 

Tears are there, acrid drops 

That do not rise 
Quick gushing to the eyes, 
Kindly relieving, as they gently flow, 

The mitigable woe : 
But oozing inward, silent, dark, and chill, 

Like some cavernous rill, 
That falls congealing — turning into stone 
The thing it falls upon. 

But now and then, maybe, 
The pent-up pain 
Breaks out resistless in some passionate strain 
Of simulated grief; 

Seeking relief 
In that fond idle way 
From thoughts on life that prey. 

" How truthfully conceived ! " 
With glistening eyes, 
Some listener cries ; 






Too Late. 261 

" Fine art to feign so well ! " 
Ah ! none can tell 
So truthfully the deep things of the heart 
Who have not felt the smart. 

Too late — the curse of life ! 

Take back the cup 

So mockingly held up 
To lips that may not drain. 

Was it no pain 
That long heart-thirst ? 
That the life-giving draught is offered first 

On that extremest shore 
Who leaves, shall thirst no more. 

Take back the cup ! — yet, no ; 
Who dares to say 
'Tis mockingly presented ? Let it stay. 
If here too late, 
There is a better state, 
A cup that this may typify, prepared 
For those who've little of life's sweetness shared, 
Nor many flowerets found 

On earthly ground ; 
Yet patiently hold on, awaiting meek 
The call of Him they seek — 
" Come thou that weepest, yet hast stood the test,— 
Come to thy rest." 



262 The Evening Walk. 



THE EVENING WALK. 

" Those who have laid the harp aside, 
And turned to idler things, 
From very restlessness have tried 

The loose and dusty strings, 
And catching back some favourite strain, 
Run with it o'er the chords again." 

W. S. Landor. 

MY lonely ramble yester-eve I took, 
Along that pleasant path that by the brook, 
Skirting its flowery margin, winds away 
Through fields all fragrant now with new-mown hay. 
I could not choose but linger as I went, 
A willing idler, with a child's content, 
Gathering the wildflowers on that streamlet's edge, 
Spared by the mower's scythe, a fringing ledge 
Of spiky purple, epilobium tall, 
Veronicas, and cuplike coronal 
Of golden crowsfoot, waving meadow-sweet, 
And wilding rose, that dipt the stream to meet. 
And that small brook, so shallow and so clear ! 
The mother-ewe, without a mother's fear, 
Led her young lamb from off the shelving brink, 
Firm in the midway stream to stand and drink. 
'Twas pleasant, as it dipped and gazed, to see 
Its wonder at the watery mimicry, 
As here and there, the ripple glancing by, 
Imaged an up-drawn foot, a round black eye, 
Wide staring, and a nose to meet his own 
That seemed advancing from below. Anon, 
From the dark hollow of a little cove, 



The Evening Walk, 263 

By an old oak root richly groined above, 

Where lay the gathered waters, still and deep, 

A vaulted well : e'en thence there seems to peep 

A round white staring face, that starts away 

As he himself starts back in quick dismay. 

Again advancing, with a bolder stare, 

He butts defiance. Lo ! it meets him there, 

And answers threat with threat. He stands at bay, 

Perplexed, and ripe for warfare or for play. 

Who had not loitered, gazed, and smiled like me, 

Pleased with the pretty wanton's antic glee ? 

And cried " O Nature ! " from a thankful heart, 

" How graceful and how beautiful thou art ! " 

But all around me in that pleasant place 

Was rife with beauty, harmony, and grace. 

The glow of sunset mantled earth and sky, 

The evening breeze came softly shivering by, 

Laden with incense. 'Mongst the tedded hay, 

The fresh-discovered carpet, emerald green, 

Outspread its velvet softness, — sight, I ween, 

Tempting to wistful gaze of lowing kine, 

That in their stale, embrowned pastures pine, 

Loathing and restless, and impatient wait 

The tardy opening of that barrier gate. 

The mower's whetstone there abandoned thrown; 

Silent his whistling scythe — himself was gone; 

But gamesome Echo, as he trudged away, 

Caught up the burden of his rustic lay ; 

Then, as the double cadence died remote, 

From an old thorn-bush near came dropping out 

A sweeter strain, so tremulously low 

At first, as if the very soul of woe 

Wailed in its music ; but that dying close 

Melted in air, and on the fall arose 



264 The Evening Walk. 

A burst of rapture, swelling clear and strong, 
In all the wild exuberance of song. 
Methought, as all unseen I hearkened nigh, 
The little minstrel sang exultingly — 
* ' Man to his home is gone, and leaveth free 
The weary world at last to peace and me." 

Peace ! peace ! but not all peace. E'en there was heard 

The voice of mourning : a bereaved bird 

(Ah ! piteous contrast to that minstrel blithe) 

Hovered about the spot where late the scythe, 1 

Wide sweeping, had to prying eyes revealed 

Her lowly nest, so cunningly concealed. 

There, by rude hands displaced and scattered, lay 

The downy cradle of her young ; and they — 

The callow nurslings, they with chirpings shrill 

And quivering pinions, from her loaded bill 

That late received their portions — where are they ? 

Gone — in close wiry cell to pine away, 

Where never parent bird's returning strain 

Shall wake them up to life and love again. 

So, loitering, lingering, musing as I went, 
Homeward at last my devious steps I bent, 
Leaving the meadows, by the forest road 
That skirts the common. Many a neat abode, 
Dwelling of rural industry, I passed, 
And little fields and gardens, from the waste 
Cribbed, long and narrow. Oh ! invidious eye, 
That passeth not these poor encroachments by 
With look averted, if it may not see 
In strictness of judicial trust, or free 
To gaze unharmful on the poor man's toil, 
That blesseth not the increase of the soil. 



The Evening Walk, 265 

Stirring with life was. every cottage door : 

The humble owner there, his labour o'er, 

Stood in the sunset, watching down the west 

The round, red orb descending : to his breast 

One hugged a little infant : one, with knife 

Of clumsy fashion, for the neat good wife 

Wrought some rude implement, or made repair 

In the old milking-stool or crazy chair : 

One stood intently poring o'er the stye 

Where munched his pig, with calculating eye 

Measuring its growth, and counting o'er and o'er, 

How much the profits of so many score ; 

And many a one still found some task to do 

In his small garden, and performed it too 

With cheerful heart, as if such toil were play, 

After the heat and burden of the day : 

And many a one, as close I passed him by, 

Bade me " Good-night" with rustic courtesy — 

A homely salutation, that to me 

Endeareth evening; seemeth then to be, 

So oft I've thought, a kindlier sympathy 

'Twixt all God's creatures. Should I reason why, 

Vain were the attempt. I only feel 'tis so ; 

Yet one perhaps of deeper search might show 

The source whence those mysterious feelings flow. 

Is it perchance, as darkness draweth nigh — 
Type of the grave, where soon we all shall lie — ■ 
And sleep, the type of death, comes stealing on, 
When, all our strength and all our cunning gone, 
The strongest sinews and the wisest head 
Shall lie alike defenceless as the dead ? — 
Is it that then, by some mysterious cause, 
Man toward man in closer union draws ? — 



266 The Evening Walk. 

That then, perhaps, as in the dying hour, . 
Distinctions fade of xank, and wealth, and power, 
And human hearts instinctively confess 
The mutual bond of mutual helplessness, 
Mutual dependence — ay, of great and small — 
On One — the God and Father of us all ? 

Slowly the straggling cottagers I passed, 

Still homeward wending, till I reached at last — 

There was I ever wont to stand and gaze — 

A lonely dwelling, that in bygone days, 

But two years back, or little more, had been 

The neatest tenement on Rushbrook Green. 

A better sort of cottage, it contained 

Two upper rooms, whose windows, lattice-paned, 

Peered through the thatch and overhanging leaves 

Of a young vine. On one side, from the eaves 

Sloped down — addition trim of later date — 

A long, low penthouse, oft with heart elate 

Eyed by the builder : — " There for sure," said he, 

" When winter comes, how snug our cow will be." 

And the goodwife, like fashionable wives, 

Had her own pin-money. Her straw-roofed hives, 

Ranged all a-row against the southern wall, 

Yielded in prosperous seasons, at the fall, 

Such profits as she spread with honest pride 

Before her well-pleased partner. Then, beside, 

She had her private treasure, hoarded up 

For Christmas holiday ; a sparkling cup 

Of rich brown mead, a neighbour's heart to cheer 

On winter evenings ; and throughout the year, 

For passing guest, a kindly-proffered treat 

Of mild metheglin, mild, and pale, and sweet. 



The Evening Walk. 267 

There was no garden kept like Isaac Rae's. 
Soon after sunrise in the longest days, 
And in the twilight, his hard taskwork done 
(His long day's labours in the summer sun), 
There might you see him, toiling, toiling on, 
Till every fading streak of day was gone. 
'Tis true, no garden could with Isaac's vie 
Round all the common, crammed so curiously, 
And yet so neat and fruitful. Then the wall — 
For hedge it were almost a sin to call 
The living rampart — that was Isaac's pride; 
And there he dipt and dipt, and spied and spied, 
That from the quickset line, so straight and true, 
No vagrant twig should straggle into view. 

There were no children kept like Isaac Rae's, 

And he had seven. " Well, my Phoebe says," 

Himself once told me, just three years agone, 

Presenting proud his last-born little one, — 

" She says — the Lord sends hungry mouths, 'tis true, 

But then He sends the meat to fill them too; 

For we have never wanted, thanks to Him ! 

Nor sha'n't, while Isaac Rae has life and limb 

To labour for them ; nor it sha'n't be said 

His children ever broke the parish bread, 

Not while the Lord is good to us, and still 

Gives me the strength to labour, with the will. " 

The will continued, — but the strength, — alas ! 
There came a painful accident to pass. 
His master's team — for many years the same 
His voice had guided, every horse by name, 
Like household dogs, accustomed to obey 
Its tones familiar — one unlucky day, 



268 The Evening Walk. 

Startled to sudden madness, broke away 

From all command ; and struggling to restrain 

Their headlong progress — struggling all in vain — 

His footing failed — he fell — and he was gone — 

Right o'er his chest the wheel came crushing on. 

And yet he lived and lived. Oh, lingering death ! 

How terrible thou art, when every breath 

Is drawn with painful gasp, and some poor heart, 

Of mother, child, or wife, for every start 

That shakes the sufferer, feels a deadlier throe — 

Feels, as I've heard poor Phoebe say, as though 

Each time a drop of blood were wrung from thence. 

It was the will of All-wise Providence 

That Isaac long should linger in his pain, 

Yet never known to murmur or complain, 

No, nor to wish the tedious time away, 

Was he, while helpless on his bed he lay, 

Nor one impatient, fretful word to say, 

Helpless and hopeless ; — yet, a little space 

Hope faintly dawned. In the kind surgeon's face — 

A man of kind and Christian heart was he — 

The ever-watchful wife was quick to see 

A changed expression, but she dared not say 

" Is there a hope?" lest it should fade away, 

That blessed gleam, and leave her dark once more ; 

So she was mute, but followed to the door 

With asking eyes. He, kindly cautious, said — 

" There is a chance — but " so unfinished 

Leaving the sentence. 'Tis a cruel task 

To look discouragement on eyes that ask 

Only for leave to hope, — a hard one, too, 

Having permitted hope, to keep in view, 

Dashing her timid joy, the spectre fear. 

At length they whispered in the poor man's ear 



The Evening Walk. 269 

That he might live. He only shook his head. 

But when a low consulting reached his bed 

About the county hospital — how there 

Patients were treated with the kindest care — 

How all that medicine, all that skill could do, 

Was done for them — and how they were brought 

through 
The tedious time of slow recovery, 
Better than in their own poor homes could be, — 
Then lifted he his feeble voice to say, 
" Send me not there — Oh ! send me not away 
From my poor home — my true and tender wife 
And loving little ones, to end my life 
In a strange place, with all strange faces near : 
My father and my mother both died here — 
Here in this very room in peace they died, 
And sleep in our own churchyard side by side ; 
And I shall soon be with them where they lie ; 
Send me not hence, in a strange place to die ; 
I shall not linger long — 'twill soon be past — 
Oh ! let me see my children to the last." 

He had his wish — they sent him not away; 
So there upon his own poor bed he lay 
Yet a few weeks, awaiting his release, 
And there at last he closed his eyes in peace : 
In Christian peace he yielded up his breath ; 
But oh ! for him there was a sting in death — 
His wife ! — his little ones ! — and they were seven, 
All helpless infants. . . . But for trust in Heaven, 
Trust in His word who sayeth, " Leave to me 
Thy fatherless children," great assuredly 
The dying father's parting pang had been. 
I saw the widow ere the closing scene, 



270 The Evening Walk. 

The funeral, was over. There she sate 
('Twas on a Sabbath morning), calm, sedate, 
Composed, and neat, as she had ever been 
On the Lord's Day, when I so oft had seen 
Her and her husband, and their eldest three, 
Hastening to church ; and now prepared was she 
And her seven orphans, all in decent show 
Of humble mourning, that same path to go, 
Following the father's coffin. They were there, 
The little creatures ! huddling round her chair, 
Troubled and mute, with eyes upon her face 
(Some tearful) fixed, and all as if to trace 
Its meekly mournful meaning — all save he, 
The youngest Innocent : upon her knee 
He clambered up, and crowed with baby glee, 
And stroked her face, and lisped his father's name. 
Then might be seen, convulsive through her frame, 
A universal shudder. Nor alone 
Struck to her heart the call. A wailing moan 
Among the elder orphans rose, and one — 
The boy of whom his father was so proud — 
Fell on his mother's neck, and wept aloud. 
Her eyes were misty, but no tears she shed. 
Kissing with quivering lips the boy's fair head, 
As on her breast, the face concealed, it lay. 
And then, to all around, who came to pay — 
Neighbours and friends — to the respected dead 
Their last sad tribute, some few words she said 
Of thankfulness to each, and spoke of him 
Calmly, while many an eye with tears grew dim. 

The funeral moved ; and through the humble door 
He passed, who left it to return no more. 
Against the side part, as 'twas carried by, 



The Evening Walk. 271 

They jarred the coffin ; then a stifled cry- 
Escaped the widow, and a sign, as though 
From that insensate form to ward the blow 
She felt upon her heart. A moment all 
In silence stopt, while one arranged the pall ; 
Then sounded slow the bearers' heavy tread, 
As to his last long home they bore the dead. 

The staff and stay of all the house was gone, 

And evil days came darkly hurrying on ; 

And yet with all the energy of love — 

A widowed mother's ! — that lone woman strove 

(The poor have little leisure for their grief) 

To feed her little ones without relief 

Of parish pittance. " He would grieve," she thought, 

" To know his wife and babes so low were brought. 

The hand is cold that toiled for us, 'tis true ; 

But I can still work hard ; and Jemmy too 

Grows helpful, and he'll earn a trifle soon 

T'ward his own keep. The cottage is our own. 

And for the garden ... I can dig there now, 

Though not like him indeed. And then our cow " 

But then she stopt and sighed. Alas ! she knew 

There was a heavy debt, contracted too 

To a hard creditor, of whom 'twas known 

That he severely reckoned for his own. 

" But then," thought she, " it may not all be true 

Folks tell of him ; and when I humbly sue 

Only for patience — for a longer day, 

He will not take my children's bread away." 

Thou hadst to learn sad truth, poor simple one ! 

How ten times harder than the hard flint stone 

That human heart may be whose god is gold. 

The prayer was spurned — the widow's cow was sold. 



272 The Evening Walk. 

That stroke fell heavy, but it crushed not quite 

The noble spirit that still kept in sight 

Its faithful purpose. " All's not gone," she said ; 

" Their father's words upon his dying bed 

Were — ■ Phoebe, keep them from the workhouse walls 

Whilst thou hast strength. There's not a sparrow falls 

But One above takes note thereof ; and He 

Will not forsake thy little ones and thee. ' " 

So she strove on ; yea, morning, noon, and night ; 

For the late traveller oft observed a light, 

As o'er the moorland waste he looked afar, 

From Phoebe's cottage, twinkling like a star 

Athwart the darkness. And I've heard one tell — 

One in her prosperous days who knew her well, 

An old wayfaring man, whose lonely road, 

Oft after midnight, past her poor abode, 

Led to the village inn — I've heard him say, 

How many a time when he has passed that way 

At that dead hour, attracted by the ray 

Of her small candle, he has looked within, 

And seen her, with a hand all pale and thin, 

Plying her needle. " Ay, so thin" said he, 

" As 'twas held up between the light and me, 

Through it the flame with ruddy brightness shone ; 

And her poor face ! — so sharp with care 'twas grown, 

The brow so wrinkled, one could scarce have known 

'Twas that same face so fair to look upon, 

The pleasant comely face of Phoebe Rae. 

Once," he continued, " when a deep snow lay 

On all the country, one cold winter's night, 

I passed her cottage casement, whence the light 

Shone forth, but with a dull and fitful flare ; 

And when I looked within, a dying glare 



The Evening Walk. 273 

Flamed from its long, bent wick, but not a spark 

Lived on the hearth, where all was cold and dark. 

Yet there beside, in her accustomed place, 

The widow sat ; upon her arms her face, 

Fallen forward on the table, where had dropt 

Her work, when the relaxing fingers stopt 

Benumbed with cold. She slept the heavy sleep 

Of one who desperately has striven to keep 

O'er wearied nature from her needful rest, 

Then all at once gives way. I did my best, 

Gently awaking, to revive and cheer 

The drooping spirit ; but her pain lay here" 

(Striking his breast). " Nor mine the power to give 

A cordial that had made her hope and live. 

I could not say — * Poor soul ! thy sorrows cease — 

Thy children shall have bread — thy sick heart peace.' 

But she has peace at last, and they have bread ; 

The parish feeds them, and her weary head 

Lies by her husband's." 

Honest Adam Bell ! 
The old man loved those simple peasants well, 
Whose chronicler he was, whose board had fed, 
Whose humble roof had sheltered his grey head, 
Whose hearth had warmed him, and whose babes had 

clung 
About his neck, with fondly stammering tongue 
Lisping old Adam's name. Too true he said. — 
The cottage now is all untenanted ; 
The din of childish mirth resounds no more — 
Heart-cheering music — from the humble door; 
Closed is the door, and closed the casements all — 
There long unanswered may the traveller call ; 
Creaks the loose vine, down straggling from the wall ; 
And through the thatch, with vegetation green, 
s 



274 The Evening Walk. 

House-leek and moss, are the rude rafters seen ; 
Loose on its hinge the garden wicket sways ; 
The forest colt within the enclosure strays, 
Where never yet, since Isaac fenced it round, 
Was hoof-print seen ; there idle weeds abound — 
Nettles, and docks, and couch-grass, matting o'er 
The walks and beds that useful produce bore ; 
And rambling bindweed, with its flowery rings, 
Up the young apple-tree tenacious clings, 
Strangling the long wild shoots, and thickly winds 
Round currant-bush and gooseberry, her vines 
Knotting them fast, and dragging to the ground 
Their matted heads, with barren verdure crowned. 
And lo ! poor Isaac's pride, that prickly screen — 
What spoiler's hand relentless there hath been ? 
Alas ! neglect, by slower means 'tis true, 
But not less sure, the spoiler's work will do. 
Strong were the vernal shoots, the shearer's care 
Specially needed, but — he was not there. 
And while succeeding summer still was young, 
High in the straggling sprays the throstle sung, 
And through the stems, unsightly bare beneath, 
Pushed in the lawless stragglers of the heath. 

Such now, so silent and so desolate, 
Is Isaac's cottage. At its crazy gate 
I linger oft ; and y ester- even I stayed 
Till tender twilight with her stealthy shade 
Veiled the red sunset. " Here is peace," said I, 
" In man's abode, in earth, in air, and sky; 
But the heart shrinketh from this deathlike rest." 
I thought upon the skylark's ruined nest, 
Upon her prisoned young, their captive lay, 
And on the orphan babes of Isaac Rae. 



The Evening Walk. 275 

Then from the cottage wall ^depended still, 

A broken hoop, that oft with emulous skill 

I'd seen the happy creatures urge along ; 

And in one corner lay a little prong, 

Fashioned for childish hand, a wooden toy, 

The father's shaping for his eldest boy. 

I said how the loose vine swung to and fro, 

Its long stems creaking with a sound of woe ; 

But round the little casement still remained 

A tall blush-rose tree, there by Phcebe trained, 

And loose depending o'er the interior gloom, 

One pale, dew-sprinkled flower, the first to bloom, 

Hung down like weeping beauty o'er the tomb. 

I looked and listened. All within, I knew, 
Was dark and tenantless ; yet thence stole through 
A sound of life and motion ; something stirred 
The light leaves of the rose, and a small bird 
From the dusk chamber, through a broken pane, 
Flew forth to light and the fresh fields again. 
" Art thou," thought I, " sole tenant of the cot? 
Innocent creature ! thou profanest not 
What once was the abode of innocence 
Scarcely less pure than thine. ,, 

As if with sense 
Of that whereon I mused, the bird at hand 
On an old mossy pear-tree took his stand, 
And dropped his wings, and tuned his little throat 
To such a tender, soft, complaining note, 
So sweet, so sad, so tremulous, I said, 
Surely he mourns the absent and the dead. 



276 " 'Tis Hard to Die in Spring" 



"'TIS HARD TO DIE IN SPRING." 

" A short time after this he was laid upon his sick-bed, when a bright 
sun reminded him of his favourite time of year, and he said, ' I shall 
never see the peach-blossom or the flowers of Spring: it is hard to die 
in Spring.' 

" ' God,' he said, ' had placed him in a paradise, and he had every- 
thing that could make a man happy.' 

" Yet eminently calculated as he was to enjoy such blessings, and 
nervous as his constitution was, he met the approach of death with 
composure, with gratitude and resignation to the will of Him whose 
beneficence had given, and whose pleasure it was now to take away." — 
Memoirs of Robert Surtees, Esq., by Geo. Taylor, Esq. 

,r I ''IS hard to die in Spring," were the touching words 

JL he said, 
As cheerfully the light stole in — the sunshine round his bed ; 
" 'Tis hard to die in Spring, when the green earth looks so 

gay; 
I shall not see the peach-blossom." — 'Twas thus they heard 

him say. 

'Twas thus the gentle spirit — oh ! deem it not offence — 
Departing, fondly lingered among the things of sense ; 
Among the pleasant places where God his lot had cast, 
To walk in peace and honour, blessed and blessing to the 
last. 

While some, though heavenward wending, go mourning all 

their years, 
Their meat (so wisdom willeth) the bitter bread of tears, 
And some, resisting proudly the soft persuasive word, 
Must feel — in mercy made to feel — the terrors of the Lord ; 



Lament for Lilias. 277 

There are whom He leads lovingly, by safe and pleasant 

ways, 
Whose service, yea, whose very life, is gratitude and praise — 
Diffusive, active, kindly — enjoying to impart — 
Receiving to distribute — the service of the heart. 

For such this ruined earth all through is not a vale of 

tears, 
Some vestige of its primal form amid the wreck appears ; 
And though immortal longings oft in secret soar above, 
The heart awhile contented fills its lower sphere of love. 

"God placed me in a paradise!" So spake his grateful 

heart, 
As grateful still from all he loved, when summoned to 

depart. 
Thrice blessed he in life and death, to whom, so called, 

'twas given 
To pass, before aught faded here, from paradise to heaven ! 



LAMENT FOR LILIAS. 



IS there no power in love ? Hath love no chain 
Of linked strength to hold the spirit here ? 
Has earth no pleasant places to detain 

One heavenly nature from its higher sphere ? 

Love was about thee, Lilias ! from thy birth 
Love, like an atmosphere, encircled thee ; 



i 7 8 Lament for Lilias. 

A flower, almost too beautiful for earth, 
That in our sight did dwell continually. 

Our joy, our pride, our darling, our delight ! 

More precious in thy sheltering leaves deep set, 
That shrinking timidly from common sight, 

Bloomed but for us, our own sweet violet. 

But oh ! the fragrance that it shed abroad — 
The incense that to highest heaven ascended, 

From those meek virtues a heart-searching God 

Loves best, with His dear Son's own meekness 
blended. 

A Stranger came and coveted our flower; 

Yet not a Stranger Lilias' heart who won, 
And pressed, prevailed, and bore her from her bower, 

To be of his the life, the light, the sun. 

Meekly she moved, with matron grace serene, 
In duty and in love's enlarged sphere ;, 

And the heart blessed her — and the eye was seen 
Warm glistening as her well-known step drew near. 

And thus beloved and blessing, was she blessed ? — 
So bounteously, that life could have in store 

One only gift, which, crowning all the rest, 
Would make her cup of happiness run o'er. 

'Twas granted : tidings came — " a child was bom : " 
Was there not gladness in the house that day ! 

Down sank the sun, uprose the merry morn, — 
Pale, cold in death, the new-made mother lay. 



The Night-Smelling Stock. 279 

Oh ! what a ruin — what a wreck was there 
Of goodliest structure ever reared below ! 

Our Best ! — our Beautiful as Angels are ! — 

Why wouldst thou leave us? Wherefore wouldst 
thou go ? 

Hadst thou no power, O Love, the fleeting breath 

The life of many lives awhile to stay ? 
Hast thou no power, O Love ! to fight with Death — 

To fight— to overcome — to conquer ? Yea, 

Thou hast ! thou hast ! The fight, the victory 
For us, the lost regained, is fought and won : 

The grave can never hold whom Christ sets free; 
We shall rejoin thee, loved and lovely one ! 



THE NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK. 

COME, look at this Plant, with its narrow pale leaves, 
And its tall, slim, delicate stem, 
Thinly studded with flowers ! — yes, with flowers ! — There 

they are ! 
Don't you see at each joint there's a little brown star? 
But, in truth, there's no beauty in them. 

So you ask why I keep it, the little mean thing ! 

Why I stick it up here, just in sight ; — 
'Tis a fancy of mine. — " A strange fancy ! " you say ; 



2 So The Night-Smelling Stock. 

11 No accounting for tastes ! " — In this instance you may, 
For the flower .... But I'll tell you to-night. 

Some six hours hence, when the Lady Moon, 

Looks down on that bastioned wall, 
When the twinkling stars dance silently 
On the rippling surface of the sea, 

And the heavy night-dews fall ; 

Then meet me again in this casement niche, 
On the spot where we're standing now. — 
Nay, question not wherefore ! Perhaps, with me, 
To look out on the night, and the broad, bright sea, 
And to hear its majestic flow! 



Well, we're met here again ; and the moonlight sleeps 

On the sea, and the bastioned wall ; 
And the flowers there below — how the night-wind brings 
Their delicious breath on its dewy wings ! — 

" But there's one," say you, " sweeter than all ! " 

" Which is it ? The myrtle, or jessamine, 

Or their sovereign lady the rose ? 
Or the heliotrope ? or the virgin's bower ? 
What! neither?" — Oh, no; 'tis some other flower, 

Far sweeter than either of those. 

Far sweeter ! And where, think you, groweth the plant 

That exhaleth such perfume rare ? 
Look about, up and down — but take care ! or you'll break, 
With your elbow, that poor little thing that's so weak. 

. . . . " Why, 'tis that smells so sweet, I declare ! " 



The Night- Smelling Stock. 281 

Ah ha ! is it that ? Have you found out now 

Why I cherish that odd little fright ? 
" All is not gold that glitters," you know; 
And it is not all worth makes the greatest show 

In the glare of the strongest light. 

There are human flowers full many, I trow, 

As unlovely as that by your side, 
That a common observer passeth by 
With a scornful lip, and a careless eye, 

In the heyday of pleasure and pride. 

But move one of those to some quiet spot, 

From the rnid-day sun's broad glare, 
Where domestic peace broods with dove-like wing, 
And try if the homely, despised thing, 

May not yield sweet fragrance there. 

Or wait till the days of trial come — 

The dark days of trouble and woe ; 
W T hen they shrink, and shut up, late so bright in the 

sun; — 
Then turn to the little despised one, 

And see if 'twill serve you so. 

And judge not again at a single glance, 

Nor pass sentence hastily : 
There are many good things in this world of ours — 
Many sweet things and rare — weeds that prove precious 
flowers — 

Little dreamt of by you or me. 



282 Past and Present. 



PAST AND PRESENT. 

I SAW a little merry maiden, 
With laughing eye and sunny hair, 
And foot as free as mountain fairy, 
And heart and spirit light as air. 

And hand and fancy active ever, 

Devising, doing, striving still, 
Defeated oft, despairing never, 

Up springing strong in heart and will. 

I saw her bounding in her gladness 

On a wild heath at dewy morn, 
Weaving a glistening wild-rose garland 

With clusters from the scented thorn. 

I saw her singing at her needle, 

And quick and well the work went on, 

Till song and fingers stopt together, 
Not for sad thought of fair days gone, 

But that of fairer still, a vision 

Rose to the happy creature's sight ; 

And to a fairy world of fancy 

The mind was gone, more swift than light. 

I saw her smiling in her slumber, 
The happy day-dream not gone by ; 

I saw her weep — but bosom sunshine 
Broke out before the tear was diy. 



The Wintry May. 283 

I saw her * * troops of friends " encircling, 

Read kind goodwill in many a face, 
With a bright glance that seemed exulting : 

happy world ! O pleasant place ! 

I saw a drooping dark-browed woman, 
With sunken cheek and silvered hair ; 

The widow's veil more deeply shading 
A shaded brow, the brow of care. 

I saw her wandering in her loneness, 

Among the tombs at eventide, 
When autumn winds with hollow murmur 

Among funereal branches sighed. 

I saw the sere leaves falling round her, 

Where o'er the dead those dark boughs wave, 

I heard a voice- — I caught a murmur — 
" O weary world ! O peaceful grave ! " 

I thought upon that merry maiden — 

1 looked upon that woman lone : 
That form so buoyant, this so drooping, 

O Time ! O change ! — were one — my own. 



THE WINTRY MAY.— 1837. 

WHEN Summer faded last away 
I sighed o'er every shortening day ; 
Comparing, with its pale-hued flowers, 
My sicklied hopes and numbered hours, 
And thinking — " Shall I ever see 
That Summer sun renewed for me ? " 



284 The Wintry May. 

When Autumn shed her foliage sere, 
Methought I could have dropt a tear 
With every shrivelled leaf that fell, 
And frost-nipped blossom. " Who can tell, 
When leaves again clothe shrub and tree," 
Whispered my heart, " where thou wilt be ?" 

But when Old Winter's rule severe 
Set in triumphant — dark and drear — 
Though shrinking from the bitter blast, 
Methought, ' ' This worst once overpast, 
With balmy, blessed Spring, may be 
A short revival yet for me." 

And this is May — but where, oh ! where 
The balmy breath, the perfumed air 
I pined for, while my weary sprite 
Languished away the long, long night, 
Living on dreams of roving free 
By primrose bank and cowslip lea ? 

Unkindly season ! cruel Spring ! 

To the sick wretch no balm ye bring ; 

No herald-gleam of summer days, 

Reviving, vivifying rays. 

Seasons to come may brighter be, 

B t Time — Life — Hope — run short with me. 

Yet therefore faint not, fearful heart ! 
Look up and learn " the better part " 
That shall outlast Life's little day ; 
Seek Peace, which passeth not away, 
Look to the land where God shall be 
Life — light — yea, all in all to thee. 



/ Weep, but not Rebellious Tea?s. 285 



I WEEP, BUT NOT REBELLIOUS TEARS. 

I WEEP, but not rebellious tears ; 
I mourn, but not in hopeless woe ; 
I droop, but not with doubtful fears ; 

For whom I've trusted, Him I know : 
" Lord! I believe, assuage my grief, 
And help — oh help mine unbelief! " 

My days of youth and health are o'er, 
My early friends are dead and gone; 

And there are times it tries me sore 
To think I'm left on earth alone. 

But then faith whispers — " 'Tis not so ; 

He will not leave, nor let thee go." 

Blind eyes — fond heart — poor soul that sought 
Enduring bliss in things of earth ! 

Remembering but with transient thought 
Thy heavenly home, thy second birth ; 

Till God in mercy broke at last 

The bonds that held thee down so fast. 

As link by link was rent away, 

My heart wept blood, so sharp the pain ; 

But I have lived to count this day 
That temporal loss eternal gain ; 

For all that once detained me here 

Now draws me to a holier sphere. 



286 " It is not Deathr 

A holier sphere, a happier place, 
Where I shall know as I am known, 

And see my Saviour face to face, 

And meet, rejoicing round His throne, 

The faithful few, * made perfect there 

From earthly stain and mortal care. 



"IT IS NOT DEATH." 



IT is not Death — it is not Death, 
From which I shrink with coward fear ; v_ 
It is, that I must leave behind 

All I love here. 



It is not Wealth — it is not Wealth, 
That I am loath to leave behind ; 
Small store to me — yet all I crave — 
Hath fate assigned. 

It is not Fame — it is not Fame, 

From which it will be pain to part ; 
Obscure my lot — but mine was still 
A humble heart. 



"* The word "few" is used here in no presumptuously exclusive 
sense of the Author's, but simply as being the Scriptural phrase — 
" Many are called, but few chosen." 

The word having been altered lately, in two religious publications* 
where the poem was inserted unknown to the Author, it is thought 
proper to annex this note. 



" It is not Deaths 287 

It is not Health — it is not Health, 

That makes me fain to linger here ; 
For I have languished on in pain 

This many a year. 

It is not Hope — it is not Hope, 

From which I cannot turn away ; 

Oh, earthly Hope hath cheated me 

This many a day. 

But there are Friends — but there are Friends, 

To whom I could not say, " Farewell ! " 
Without a pang more hard to bear 

Than tongue can tell. 

But there's a thought — but there's a thought, 

Will arm me with that pang to cope; 
Thank God ! we shall not part like those 
Who have no hope. 

And some are gone — and some are gone — 

Methinks they chide my long delay — 
With whom, it seemed, my very life 
Went half away. 

But we shall meet — but we shall meet, 

Where parting tears shall never flow ; 
And when I think thereon, almost 
I long to go. 

The Saviour wept — the Saviour wept 

O'er him he loved — corrupting clay ! — 
But then he spake the word, and Death 
Gave up his prey ! — 



288 Abjuration. 

A little while — a little while, 

And the dark Grave shall yield its trust ; 
Yea, render every atom up 

Of human dust. 

What matters then — what matters then 

Who earliest lays him down to rest ? — 
Nay, " to depart, and be with Christ," 
Is surely best. 



ABJURATION. 

THERE was a time — sweet time of youthful folly ! 
Fantastic woes I courted, feigned distress, 
Wooing the veiled phantom Melancholy 

With passion, born, like Love, "in idleness." 

And like a lover — like a jealous lover — 

I hid mine idol with a miser's art, 
Lest vulgar eyes her sweetness should discover, 

Close in the inmost chambers of mine heart — 

And then I sought her — oft in secret sought her, 
From merry mates withdrawn and mirthful play, 

To wear away, by some deep stilly water 

In greenwood haunt, the livelong summer day — 

Watching the flitting clouds, the fading flowers, 
The flying rack athwart the waving grass ; 

And murmuring oft, " Alack ! this life of ours ! — 
Such are its joys — so swiftly doth it pass ! " 



Abjuration. 289 

And then mine idle tears — ah, silly maiden ! — 
Bedropt the liquid grass like summer rain, 

And sighs, as from a bosom sorrow-laden, 

Heaved the light heart that knew no real pain. 

And then I loved to haunt lone burial-places, 

To pace the churchyard earth with noiseless tread, 

To pore in new-made graves for ghastly traces — ■ 
Brown crumbling bones of the forgotten dead ; 

To think of passing bells, of dead and dying — 
'Twere good, methought, in early youth to die, 

So loved ! lamented ! — in such sweet sleep lying, 
The white shroud all with flowers and rosemary 

Stuck o'er by loving hands ! — but then, 'twould grieve 
me 

Too sore, forsooth ! the scene my fancy drew — 
I could not bear the thought to die and leave ye ; 

And I have lived, dear friends ! to weep for you. 

And I have lived to prove what * ' fading flowers " 
Are life's best joys, and all we love and prize — 

What chilling rains succeed the summer showers ! 
What bitter drops wrung slow from elder eyes ! 

And I have lived to look on " death and dying," 
To count the sinking pulse — the shortening breath ; 

To watch the last faint life-streak flying — flying ; 
To stoop — to start ! to be alone with death ! 

And I have lived to feign the smile of gladness, 
When all within was cheerless, dark, and cold — 
T 



290 Abjuration. 

When all earth's joys seemed mockery and madness, 
And life more tedious than " a tale twice told." 

And now — and now — pale, pining Melancholy ! 

No longer veiled for me your haggard brow 
Irt pensive sweetness, such as youthful folly 

Fondly conceited; I abjure ye now! — 

Away ! avaunt ! — no longer now I call ye, 
" Divinest Melancholy ! mild, meek maid ! " 

No longer may your siren spells enthrall me, 
A willing captive in your baleful shade. 

" Give me the voice of mirth, the sound of laughter, 
The sparkling glance of pleasure's roving eye !— 

The past is past — avaunt, thou dark hereafter ! — 
Come, eat and drink — to-morrow we must die ! " 






So in his desperate mood the fool hath spoken — 
The fool, whose heart hath said, " There is no God; " 

But for the stricken soul — the spirit broken — 
There's balm in Gilead still : the very rod, 

If we but kiss it as the stroke descendeth, 
Distilleth oil to allay the inflicted smart, 

And " Peace that passeth understanding " blendeth 
With the deep sighing of the contrite heart. 

Mine be that holy, humble tribulation — 

No longer " feigned distress, fantastic woe; " 

I know my griefs — but then my consolation, 
My trust, and my immortal hopes, I know. 









Once upon a Time. 291 



ONCE UPON A TIME. 

I MIND me of a pleasant time, 
A season long ago ; 
The pleasantest I've ever known, 

Or ever now shall know : 
Bees, birds, and little tinkling rills, 

So merrily did chime ; 
The year was in the sweet spring-tide, 
And I was in my prime. 

I've never heard such music since 

From every bending spray ; 
I've never plucked such primroses, 

Set thick on bank and brae. 
I've never smelt such violets 

As all that pleasant time 
I found by every hawthorn-root — 

When I was in my prime. 

Yon moory down, so black and bare, 
Was gorgeous then and gay 

With golden gorse — bright blossoming— 
As none blooms now-a-day. 

The Blackbird sings but seldom now 
Up there in the old Lime, 

Where hours and hours he used to sing- 
When I was in my prime. 

Such cutting winds came never then 
To pierce one through and through ; 

More softly fell the silent shower, 
More balmily the dew. 



292 "I never cast a Flower away''' 

The morning mist and evening haze, 
Unlike this cold grey rime, 

Seemed woven warm of golden air- 
When I was in my prime. 

And Blackberries — so mawkish now — 

Were finely flavoured then ; 
And Nuts — such reddening clusters ripe 

I ne'er shall pull again. 
Nor Strawberries blushing bright — as rich 

As fruits of sunniest clime ; 
How all is altered for the worse 

Since I was in my prime ! 



"I NEVER CAST A FLOWER AWAY." 

I NEVER cast a flower away, 
The gift of one who cared for me — 
A little flower — a faded flower — 
But it was done reluctantly. 

I never looked a last adieu 

To things familiar, but my heart 

Shrank with a feeling almost pain, 
Even from their lifelessness to part. 

I never spoke the word * ' Farewell, " 
But with an utterance faint and broken ; 

An earth-sick longing for the time 
When it shall.never more be spoken. 



A Fair Place and Pleasant. 293 



A FAIR PLACE AND PLEASANT. 

A FAIR place and pleasant, this same world of ours I 
Who says there are serpents 'mongst all the sweet 
flowers ? 
Who says every blossom we pluck has its thorn ? 
Pho ! pho ! laugh those musty old sayings to scorn. 

If you roam to the tropics for flowers rich and rare, 
No doubt there are serpents, and deadly ones, there ; 
If none but the rose will content ye, 'tis true 
You may get sundry scratches, and ugly ones too. 

But prythee look there — Could a serpent find room 
In that close-woven moss, where those violets bloom ? 
And reach me that woodbine — you'll get it with ease — 
Now, wiseacre ! where are the thorns, if you please ? 

I say there are angels in every spot, 
Though our dim earthly vision discerneth them not ; 
That they're guardians assigned to the least of us all, 
By Him who takes note if a sparrow but fall ; 

That they're aye flitting near us, around us, above, 

On missions of kindness, compassion, and love ; 

That they're glad when we're happy, disturbed at our 

tears, 
Distressed at our weaknesses, failings, and fears ; 

That they care for the least of our innocent joys, 
Though we're cozened like children with trifles and toys, 
And can lead us to bloom-beds, and lovely ones too, 
Where snake never harboured, and thorn never grew. 



294 My Evening, 



MY EVENING. 

FAREWELL, bright Sun! mine eyes have 
watched 
Thine hour of waning light ; 
And tender twilight ! fare-thee-well — 
And welcome star-crowned night ! 

Pale, serious, silent, with deep spell 

Lulling the heart to rest, 
As lulls the mother's low sweet song 

The infant on her breast. 

Mine own beloved hour! — mine own! 

Sacred to quiet thought, 
To sacred memories, to calm joys, 

With no false lustre fraught ! 

Mine own beloved hour ! for now, 

Methinks, with garish day 
T shut the world out, and with those 

Long lost, or far away, 

The dead, the absent, once again 

My soul holds converse free — 
To such illusions, Life ! how dull 

Thy best reality ! 

The vernal nights are chilly yet, 

And cheerily and bright 
The hearth still blazes, flashing round 

Its ruddy, flickering light. 



My Evening. 295 

* ' Bring in the lamp — —so — set it there, 

Just show its veiled ray 
(Leaving all else in shadowy tone) 

Fallen on my book and— stay — 

u Leave my work by me " — Well I love 

The needle's useful art; 
'Tis unambitious — womanly — 

And mine 's a woman's heart. 

Not that I ply with sempstress rage, 

As if for life or bread ; 
No, sooth to say— unconsciously 

Slackening the half- drawn thread, 

From fingers that, as spell-bound, stop, 

Pointing the needle wrong, 
Mine eyes towards the open book 

Stray oft, and tarry long. 

" Stop, stop! Leave open the glass-door 

Into that winter bower;" 
For soon therein the uprisen moon 

Will pour her silvery shower ; 

Will glitter on those glossy leaves ; 

On that white pavement shine ; 
And dally with her eastern love, 

That wreathing jessamine. 

"Thanks, Lizzy! No; there's nothing more 

Thy loving zeal can do; 
Only — oh yes ! — that gipsy flower,* 

Set that beside me too." — 

* The night-smelling stock. 



296 My Evening. 

" That Ethiop, in its china vase?" — 
" Ay, set it here ; — that's right. 

Shut the door after you." — 'Tis done; 
I'm settled for the night. 

Settled and snug; — and first, as if 

The fact to ascertain, 
I glance around, and stir the fire, 

And trim the lamp again. 

Then, dusky flower ! I stoop to inhale 
Thy fragrance. Thou art one 

That wooeth not the vulgar eye, 
Nor the broad staring sun ; 

Therefore I love thee ! — Selfish love 

Such preference may be ; — 
That thou reservest all thy sweets, 

Coy thing ! for night and me. 

What sound was that ? Ah, Madam Puss ! 

I know that tender mew — 
That meek, white face — those sea-green eyes- 

Those whiskers, wet with dew, 

To the cold glass — the greenhouse glass — 

Pressed closely from without ; 
Well, thou art heard — I'll let thee in, 

Though skulking home, no doubt, 

From lawless prowl. — Ah, ruthless cat ! 

What evil hast thou done ? 
What deeds of rapine, the broad eye 

Of open day that shun ? 



My Even'mg. 297 

What ! not a feather plucked to-night ? 

Is that what thou wouldst tell 
With that soft pur, those winking eyes, 

And waving tail ? — Well, well, 

I know thee, friend ! — But get thee in, 

By Ranger stretch and doze ; 
Nay, never growl, old man ! her tail 

Just whisked across thy nose. 

But 'twas no act premeditate, 

Thy greatness to molest : 
Then, with that long luxurious sigh, 

Sink down again to rest ; 

But not before one loving look 

Toward me, with that long sigh, 
Says, " Mistress mine ! all's right, all's well! 

Thou'rt there, and here am I ! " — 

That point at rest, we're still again. 

I on my work intent ; 
At least, with poring eyes thereon, 

In seeming earnest bent ; 

And fingers, nimble at their task, 

Mechanically true ; 
Though heaven knows where, what scenes, the 
while, 

My thoughts are travelling to ! 

Now far from earth — now over earth, 

Traversing lands and seas ; — 
Now stringing, in a sing-song mood, 

Such idle rhymes as these ; — 



298 My Evening. 

Now dwelling on departed days — 
Ah ! that's no lightsome mood ; — 

On those to come — no longer now 
Through Hope's bright focus viewed. 

On that which is — ay, there I pause, 

No more in young delight ; 
But patient, grateful, well assured, 

" Whatever is, is right ! " 

And all to be is in His hands— 
Oh, who would take it thence ? 

Give me not up to mine own will, 
Merciful Providence ! 

Such thought, when other thoughts, may-be, 

Are darkening into gloom, 
Comes to me like the angel shape, 

That, standing by the tomb, 

Cheered those who came to sorrow there. — 

And then I see and bless 
His love in all that He withholds, 

And all I still possess. 

So varied — now with book, or work, 

Or pensive reverie, 
Or waking dreams, or fancy flights, 

Or scribbling vein, may be ; 

Or eke the pencil's cunning craft, 

Or lowly murmured lay 
To the according viola — 

Calm evening slips away. 



My Evening. 299 

The felt-shod hours move swiftly on, 

Until the stroke of ten — 
The accustomed signal — summons round 

My little household. Then, 

The door unclosing, enters first 

That aged faithful friend, 
Whose prayer is with her master's child 

Her blameless days to end. 

The younger pair come close behind ; 

But her dear hand alone — 
Her dear old hand ! now tremulous 

With palsying weakness grown — 

Must reverently before me place 

The Sacred Book. 'Tis there — 
And all our voices, all our hearts, 

Unite in solemn prayer. 

In praise and thanksgiving, for all 

The blessings of the light ; 
In prayer, that He would keep us through 

The watches of the night. 

A simple rite ! and soon performed ; 

Leaving, in every breast, 
A heart more fittingly prepared 

For sweet, untroubled rest. 

And so we part. — But not before, 

Dear nurse ! a kiss from thee 
Imprints my brow. Thy fond good-night ! 

To God commending me ! 



3 oo The Primrose. 

Amen ! — and may His angels keep 
Their watch around thy bed, 

And guard from every hurtful thing 
That venerable head ! 



THE PRIMROSE. 

I SAW it in my evening walk, 
A little lonely flower! 
Under a hollow bank it grew, 
Deep in a mossy bower. 

An oak's gnarled root, to roof the cave 
With Gothic fretwork sprung, 

Whence jewelled fern, and arum leaves, 
And ivy garlands hung. 

And from beneath came sparkling out 
From a fallen tree's old shell, 

A little rill, that dipt about 
The lady in her cell. 

And there, methought, with bashful pride, 

She seemed to sit and look 
On her own maiden loveliness 

Pale imaged in the brook. 

No other flower— no rival grew 

Beside my pensive maid ; 
She dwelt alone, a cloistered nun, 

In solitude and shade. 

No sunbeam on that fairy well 
Darted its dazzling light — 



Archbishop Gerson. 301 

Only, methought, some clear, cold star 
Might tremble there at night. 

No ruffling wind could reach her there — 

No eye, methought, but mine, 
Or the young lamb's that came to drink, 

Had spied her secret shrine. 

And there was pleasantness to me 

In such belief. Cold eyes 
That slight dear Nature's lowliness, 

Profane her mysteries. 

Long time I looked and lingered there, 

Absorbed in still delight — 
My spirit drank deep quietness 

In, with that quiet sight. 



ARCHBISHOP GERSON. 

A ROMISH LEGEND. 

A VOICE from the sinful city 
Goes up to God on high — 
" Why tarries the righteous doom, 
When the time of o'erflowing is come 
Of the cup of iniquity ? " 

And the good Archbishop Gerson, 

As he kneels in penance drear, 
On the cold hard flags so white, 
At the hour of dead midnight, 
That accusing voice doth hear. 



302 Archbishop Gerson, 

And, groaning, he lifteth up 
His eyes to the holy rood ; 
When lo ! from the pierced side, 
And the gaping nail-wounds wide, 

Wells out as 'twere fresh-drawn blood. 

The old man beats his breast, 

At that awful sight, full sore ; 
And he bends down his aged brow — 
All beaded with sweat-drops now — 
Till it toucheth the marble floor. 

And he wrestles in earnest prayer ; 

But the accusing voice still cries, 
" How long, O Lord ! how long 
Wilt thou bear with thy people's wrong— 

With this people's iniquities ? " 

" Haste hither, my brethren dear! 

And humble yourselves with me, 
My holy brethren all ! " 
Is the Archbishop's piercing call, 

In the strength of his agony. 

They come at the call with speed, 

They kneel, and weep, and pray ; 
But the voice of prayer is drowned 
In that dread accusing sound, 
" O Lord ! make no delay ! " 

" We are grievous offenders all — 

All leprous and defiled : 
What lips shall be found this day 
With prevailing prayer to pray, 

Save the lips of a little child ? " 



-Archbishop Gerson. 303 

" Of such little ones hither bring," 

Cries aloud the Archbishop then. 
And they gather, at his command, 
Round the altar, a sinless band, 

Though the children of sinful men . 

And the pure young voices rise 
On the incense of taintless breath : 

And there reigneth o'er all the while, 

Throughout that majestic pile, 
A stillness as deep as death, 

For crozier and cowl alike 

In the dust lie prostrate there ; 
Of those living men laid low 
In the depth of abasement now, 

Stirreth not hand or hair. 

But the pleading voice goes up 

From that infant choir the while ; 
And behold, o'er the face divine 
Playeth, like lightning-shine, 

The gleam of a gracious smile. 

Then upriseth, like one entranced, 

The Archbishop on his feet :— 
" Give thanks for a day of grace ! " 
He crieth, with radiant face, — 

' ' Give thanks, as is most meet. 

" The Innocents' prayer ascendeth 

Above the Accuser's cry; 
Their Angels are heard in heaven, 
And a day of grace is given. 

Glory to God most High ! " 



304 Notes to " The Birthday." 



NOTES TO "THE BIRTHDAY." 

(i.) " To eat and ha,7ig" p. 69. 

There exists, or" did exist, in one of the Channel Islands, a singular 
convivial custom connected 'with the execution of criminals. The mem- 
bers of Court meet to celebrate the occasion with a dinner, and a few 
non-professional friends are invited "to come and eat a dead man." 

(2.) " Down to the parish worthies" &*c., p. 69. 

It may be almost superfluous to mention that this line, and, indeed, 
the whole paragraph, was written previous to the passing of the Muni- 
cipal Reform Bill. 

(3.) " While the shower" p. 72. 

" But turn out of the way a little, good scholar, towards yonder high 
honeysuckle hedge ; there we'll sit and sing, whilst this shower falls so 
gently upon the teeming earth, and gives yet a sweeter smell to the 
lovely flowers that adorn these verdant meadows. Look, under the 
broad beech- tree I sat down, when I was last this way a-fishing, and 
the birds in an adjoining grove seemed to have a friendly contention 
with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to live in a hollow tree, near to 
that primrose hill." — Isaac Walton. 



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Vol. IV. How I stood for the Dreepdaily Burghs. — First 
and Last. — The Duke's Dilemma: A Chronicle of 
Niesenstein. — The Old Gentleman's Teetotum. — 
" Woe to us when we lose the Watery Wall."— My 
College Friends: Charles Russell, the Gentleman 
Commoner. — The Magic Lay of the One- Horse Chay. 



Recent Publications. 9 

Tales from Blackwood — continued. 

Vol. V. Adventures in Texas. — How we got Possession 
of the Tuileries. — Captain Paton's Lament. — The 
Village Doctor. — A Singular Letter from Southern 
Africa. 

Vol. VI. My Friend the Dutchman. — My College 
Friends — No. II. : Horace Leicester. — The Emerald 
Studs.— My College Friends — No. III.: Mr W. 
Wellington Hurst. — Christine: A Dutch Story. — The 
Man in the Bell. 

Vol. VII. My English Acquaintance. — The Murderer's 
Last Night. — Narration of Certain Uncommon Things 
that did formerly happen to Me, Herbert Willis, B.D. 
— The Wags. — The Wet Wooing : A Narrative of 
'98. — Ben-na-Groich. 

Vol. VIII. The Surveyor's Tale. By Professor Aytoun. 
— The Forrest- Race Romance. — Di Vasari : A Tale 
of Florence. — Sigismund Fatello. — The Boxes. 

Vol. IX. Rosaura : A Tale of Madrid. — Adventure in 
the North- West Territory. — Harry Bolton's Curacy. 
— The Florida Pirate.— The Pandour and his Princess. 
— The Beauty Draught. 

Vol. X. Antonio di Carara.- — The Fatal Repast. — The 
Vision of Cagliostro. — The First and Last Kiss. — The 
Smuggler's Leap. — The Haunted and the Haunters. 
—The Duellists. 

Vol. XL The Natolian Story-Teller. — The First and 
Last Crime. — John Rintoul. — Major Moss. — The 
^Premier and his Wife. 

Vol. XII. Tickler among the Thieves ! — The Bridegroom 
of Barna. — The Involuntary Experimentalist. — Le- 
brun's Lawsuit. — The Snowing-up of Strath Lugas. — 
A Few Words on wSocial Philosophy. 



i o Messrs Blackwood and Sons' 

Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life. 
Fcap. 8vo, 3s. cloth. 

The Life of Mansie Wauch, 

Tailor in Dalkeith. Fcap. 8vo, 3s. cloth. 

The Subaltern. 

By the Author of ' The Chelsea Pensioners.' Fcap. 8vo, 
3s. cloth. 

Peninsular Scenes and Sketches. 

By the Author of ' The Student of Salamanca.' Fcap. 
8vo, 3s. cloth. 

Nights at Mess, Sir Frizzle Pumpkin, and other 
Tales. Fcap. 8vo, 3s. cloth. 

The Youth and Manhood of Cyril Thornton. 

By the Author of * Men and Manners in America.' 
Fcap. 8vo, 4s. cloth. 

Valerius : A Roman Story. 
Fcap. 8vo, 3s. cloth. 

Reginald Dalton. 

By the Author of * Valerius.' Fcap. 8vo, 4s. cloth. 

Some Passages in the Life of Adam Blair, and His- 
tory of Matthew Wald. By the Author of * Valerius.' 
Fcap. 8vo, 4s. cloth. 

Annals of the Parish, and Ayrshire Legatees. 
By John Galt. Fcap. 8vo, 4s. cloth. 

Sir Andrew Wylie. 

By John Galt. Fcap. 8vo, 4s. cloth. 

The Provost, and other Tales. 

By John Galt. Fcap.^8vo, 4s. cloth. 

The E?itail. 

By John Galt. Fcap. 8vo, 4s. cloth. 



Recent Publications, 1 1 

The Wonder- Seeker ; 

Or, The History of Charles Douglas. By M. Fraser 
T ytljer, Author of * Tales of the Great and Brave, ' 
&c. A New Edition. Fcap. 8vo, 3s. 6d. 

The Diary of a Late Physician. 

By Samuel Warren, D.C.L. i vol. crown 8vo, 
5s. 6cL 

Ten Thousand a- Year. 

By Samuel Warren, D.C.L. 2 vols, crown 8vo, 9s. 

Now and Then. 

By Samuel Warren, D.C.L. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. 

Recreations of Christopher North. 

By Professor Wilson. In 2 vols, crown 8vo, 8s. 

The Nodes Ambrosiancz. 

By Professor Wilson. With Notes and a Glossary. 
In 4 vols, crown 8vo, 16s. 

Tales. 

By Professor Wilson. Comprising ' The Lights and 
Shadows of Scottish Life,' 'The Trials of Margaret 
Lyndsay, ' and ' The Foresters. ' In I vol. crown 8vo, 
4s. cloth. 

The Book-Hunter, etc. 

By John Hill Burton. New Edition. In crown 
8vo, 7s. 6d. 

" A book pleasant to look at and pleasant to read— pleasant from its rich store of anec- 
dote, its geniality, and its humour, even to persons who care little for the subjects of 
which it treats, but beyond measure delightful to those who are in any degree members 
of the above-mentioned fraternity."— -Saturday Review. 

" We have not been more amused for a long time ; and every reader who takes interest 
in typography and its consequences will say the same, if he will begin to read ; beginning, 
he will finish, and be sorry when it is over." — Aiheruxum. 

" Mr Burton has now given us a pleasant book, full of quaint anecdote, and of a lively 
bookish talk. There is a quiet humour in it which is very taking, and there is a curious 
knowledge of books which is really very sound.'' — Examiner. 



1 2 Messrs Blackwood and Sons' 

The Cairngorm Mountains, 

By John Hill Burton. In crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. 

" One of the most complete as well as most lively and intelligent bits of reading that the 
lover of works of travel has seen for many a day." — Saturday Review. 

The Scot Abroad, 

And the Ancient League with France. By John Hill 
Burton, Author of ' The Book-Hunter, etc.' 2 vols, 
crown 8vo, in Roxburghe binding, 15 s. 

" Mr Burton's lively and interesting ' Scot Abroad,' not the least valuable of his con- 
tributions to the historical literature of his country."— Quarterly Review. 

" An excellent book, that will interest Englishmen and fascinate Scotchmen." — 
Times. 

"No amount of selections, detached at random, can give an adequate idea of the 
varied and copious results of reading which are stored up in the compact and pithy 
pages of 'The Scot Abroad.' "-Saturday Review. 

" A charming book." — Spectator: 

Lives of the Queens of Scotland, 

And English Princesses connected with the Regal Suc- 
cession of Great Britain. By Agnes Strickland. 
"With Portraits and Historical Vignettes. Post 8vo, 
£4, 4s. 

Memorials of the Castle of Edinburgh, 

By James Grant. A New Edition. In crown 8vo, 
with 12 Engravings, 3s. 6d. 

The Great Governing Families of England. 

By J. Langton Sanford and Meredith Townsend. 
Contents; — The Percies — The Greys of Howick — 
The Lowthers — The Vanes or Fanes — the Stanleys of 
Knowsley — The Grosvenors — The Fitzwilliams — The 
Cavendishes — The Bentincks — The Clintons — The 
Stanhopes — The Talbots — The Leveson-Gowers — The 
Pagets — The Manners — The Montagus — The Osbornes 
— The Fitzroys — The Spencers — The Grenvilles — The 
Russells— The Cecils — The Villiers — The Barings — 
The Petty- Fitzmaurices — The Herberts — The Somer- 
sets — The Berkeleys — The Seymours — The Lennoxes 
— The Howards. 

2 vols. 8vo, £1, 8s. in extra binding, with richly gilt 
cover. 



Recent Publications, 13 

Homer and his Translators \ 

And the Greek Drama. By Professor Wilson. Crown 
8vo, 6s. 

** But of all the criticisms on Homer which I have ever had the good fortune to read, in 
our own or any language, the most vivid and entirely genial are those found in the ' Essays, 
Critical and Imaginative,' of the late Professor Wilson."— Mr Gladstone's Studies on 
Homer. 



The Sketcher. 

By the Rev. John Eagles. Originally published in 
' Blackwood's Magazine.' 8vo, 10s. 6d. 

" This volume, called by the appropriate name of ' The Sketcher/ is one that ought to 

be found in the studio of every English landscape-painter More instructive 

and suggestive readings for young artists, especially landscape-painters, can scarcely be 
found."— The Globe. 

Caxtoniana : 

A Series of Essays on Life, Literature, and Man- 
ners. By Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. 
2 vols, crown 8vo, 21s. 

" It would be very possible to fill many pages with the wise bright things of these volumes." 
—Eclectic. 

" Gems of thought, set upon some of the most important subjects that can engage the 
attention of men."— Daily JS r ews. 

Essays on Social Subjects. 

From the * Saturday Review.' Crown 8vo, 7s. 6d. 
Third Edition. A Second Series of the same, 7s. 6d. 

" In their own way of simple, straightforward reflection upon life, the present century 
has produced no essays better than these."— Examiner. 

" We shall welcome the author again if he has more to say on topics which he treats so 
well." — Guardian. 

Lectures on the History of Literature, 

Ancient and Modern. From the German of F. Schle- 
gel. Fcap., 5 s. 

" A wonderful performance— better than anything we as yet have in our own language." 
—Quarterly Review. 

Geology for General Readers. 

A Series of Popular Sketches in Geology and Palaeon- 
tology. By David Page, F.R.S.E. F.G.S. Second 
Edition, containing several new Chapters, price 6s. 



14 Recent Publications, 

Religion in Common Life : 

A Sermon preached in Cratliie Church, October 14, 
1855, before Her Majesty the Queen and Prince Albert. 
By the Rev. John Caird, D. D. Published by Her 
Majesty's Command. Bound in cloth, 8d. Cheap 
Edition, 3d. 

Sermons. 

By the Rev. John Caird, D.D., Professor of Divinity 
in the University of Glasgow, and one of Her Majesty's 
Chaplains for Scotland. In crown 8vo, 5s. This Edi- 
tion includes the Sermon on ' Religion in Common 
Life,' preached in Crathie Church, Oct. 1855, before 
Her Majesty the Queen and the late Prince Consort. 

" They are noble sermons ; and we are not sure but that, with the cultivated reader, 
they will gain rather than lose by being read, not heard. There is a thoughtfulness and 
depth about them which can hardly be appreciated, unless when they are studied at 
leisure ; and there are so many sentences so felicitously expressed that we should grudge 
being hurried away from them by a rapid speaker, without being allowed to enjoy them 
a second time." — Fraser's Magazine. 

The Mother's Legacie to her Uriborne Childe. 

By Mrs Elizabeth Joceline. Edited by the Very 
Rev. Principal Lee. 321110, 4s. 6d. 

" This beautiful and touching legacie."— Athen ceum. 

" A delightful monument of the piety and high feeling of a truly noble mother."— 
Morning Advertiser. 



Family Prayers, 

As authorised by the General Assembly of the Church 
of Scotland, with other Prayers by the Committee of 
the General Assembly on Aids to Devotion, forming a 
Course of Prayers for Four Weeks. Crown 8vo, red 
edges, price 4s. 6d. 

The Christian Life> 

In its Origin, Progress, and Perfection. By the Very 
Rev. E. B. Ramsay, LL.D. F.R.S.E., Dean of the 
Diocese of Edinburgh. Crown 8vo, 9s. 



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